Regression
by Rakeesh
Summary: After the end, Illyria is left behind. Alone, and haunted. (WIP)
1. The Battle

Disclaimer: Mutant Enemy holds the rights to Angel and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This is an unauthorized work.

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In one night, the world changed.

It was safe to say that Angel was not aware of the repercussions of his plan that night. Nor, really, would he be expected to. It is difficult for anyone, even a champion, to plan beyond their own death. And death was what he sought, in a way. A noble death, a final gesture of defiance, one that would shake the forces of evil to their core – and shake them it did. And the world along with them.

Illyria understood his motivations well. Once, she would have considered the very suggestion of fighting alongside the lower creatures an insult punishable by death. How far she had fallen... but not so far. These beings had proven themselves to her. One more than the rest... but he was not there. And she was left behind, with alien sensations twisting her gut, emotions she reviled taking up permanent residence in her head.

That battle, _the_ battle, had offered her a brief respite. Rage was not unfamiliar to her, and she found she had far more than her usual stores of it to spend that night. It burned so hot the relentless rain nearly seemed to boil before it touched her. It was bottomless, gushing, filling and warming her, uniting the myriad threads of her consciousness into a white-hot spear that drove her forward to kill, and kill, and kill. As the hordes of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart bore down upon them in the alley, she had deliberately placed herself away from the others, ahead of them, letting the wave of demons break upon her like the sea around a tor. It was too dangerous to be too near; most of her aspects were focused on dealing death, and the few remaining were inappropriately fixated on _him_, despite her attempts to wrest them toward more practical considerations. Like whose ribcage had her fist just crushed; what head had that been, as her booted heel sent it arcing away from the shoulders.

She had not seen exactly when the others went down. When she had time to analyze her memories after the fight, she had been pleased to see that they had all acquitted themselves admirably. The blond half-breed, Spike, had torn into his foes with a fury that had nearly matched her own. Angel, as he had vowed, had engaged the dragon, demonstrating the cunning she knew he possessed as he tricked the huge creature into crushing and burning its own allies. And Gunn – one aspect of her mind was annoyingly stuck considering him as well – fought as he could, destroying the demons which sought to flank the others, even as his life leaked and was washed away by the rain.

But the results of the battle were a foregone conclusion. They had known that. Gunn had fallen first, the new and old wounds finally proving too much. Angel was next; though he felled the dragon, the fires of its death had consumed him in a glorious end which Illyria had been proud to witness. Spike lasted a good deal longer, but eventually the weight of numbers bore him down. She did not see the death blow... he was there, and then he was not. The rainfall swept away his ashes, continuing what the torrent of foes had begun. And she was alone.

It wouldn't be longer for her, either. She was no longer the entity she once was. No more did she possess nearly limitless stores of energy to draw upon... bound to merely enhanced human flesh, fury could only drive her so far. Her blows began to weaken, even as the cuts and impacts she took began to have more telling effect. She would fall.

The thought did not bother her as much as it once would have. In essence, she had been living on borrowed... stolen... time as it was. Her old life, the glories of her former kingdom, were gone. Now the new kingdom, the one she had attached herself to as a servitor of all things, was gone as well. _He_ was gone. She did not know what awaited her beyond final death, but she no longer feared it.

Just as she had accepted her fate – truly a momentous step for her – the fates, being the pernicious entities she knew them to be, altered the path. A human vehicle, black and white, arriving on the other side of the fence from where the battle raged. Two uniformed humans, undoubtedly investigating the disturbance. The battle-maddened host of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart fell upon these new prey quickly, shredding the fence and then doing the same to the unfortunate humans.

But not before a cry for help was signaled.

If Illyria had fallen then, it would not have mattered. The horde would have scattered, leaving behind three dead humans, scores of evaporating demon carcasses, and whatever would be left of her once she ended. Humanity would have been none the wiser.

But she was Illyria! No matter her kingdom was gone, no matter she was bound, broken, trapped in a feeble mortal shell. Her life was no gift, it could only be taken... and the cost would be very, very high. She fought on, destroying demon after demon, just as she believed Angel would have wished, just as _he_ would have wished. Once her worshipers had made sacrifices to her; now she made blood sacrifice to him, her guide, seeking to please him on whatever plane his mortal soul had gone.

Next to arrive were more humans, airborne, in the noisy flying construct known as a helicopter, shining a bright light down into the alley. They lasted longer, likely relaying the tableau to disbelieving superiors. The distraction eased the pressure on Illyria, however, which she appreciated. Soon, though, the machine dropped from the sky, skewered on a huge javelin flung by the the giant one-eyed centaur in the rear of the demon army. He was too large to enter the alley, but he did well cutting off an avenue of retreat, not that she sought one.

It was then that one tired, unfocused aspect of her mind began to realize what she was seeing, what the brilliant or foolish, perhaps unexpected, result of Angel's plan was. She would have laughed, if the action was not still alien to her. They had only known that the senior partners would be enraged by their assassinations that night, that their reaction would be swift and violent, and surely fatal. They had succeeded beyond their wildest imaginations, and the reaction certainly had been sudden... and unthinking. The Wolf, Ram, and Hart had sent their minions out into the street to extract revenge, heedless of who might see, underestimating their ability to endure.

She had always considered them fools. Her opinion had not changed.

It was very nearly the end when the next batch of humans arrived. She had been knocked down, against the alley wall, her own life fluids dripping from numerous wounds. The world seemed to spin, making her far too slow pushing to her feet. A foot caught her midsection as she tried, sending her smashing back against the wall, breath denied her. Yes, it was her time. She believed she had made a good accounting for herself.

The newly arrived humans leaped quickly out of their vehicle, a large, strong-looking conveyance, brandishing much larger versions of the weapons _he_ had once employed, ineffectually, against her. They moved with purpose and efficiency, eyes wide with fear, but resolute; skirting the smashed remains of the previous vehicle and its occupants. Again, the demons threw themselves toward them, claws ready to rend; but these humans were not caught trapped and unaware.

Shots rang out in rapid succession, drowning out the snarls of the monsters and the frantic shouts of the humans. Illyria gained new appreciation for human ingenuity – sneakiness – as armour-piercing rounds tore through tough demon flesh and chitin, smashing bone, and parting limbs. In their fear, the humans fired indiscriminately into the crowd... not that there were any innocents to hit. Bullets tore the air above Illyria as she lay barely-conscious on the pavement.

Effective though they were, there were simply too many of the monsters to shoot down, and it took too many bullets to do so. The hell-spawn advanced on the humans like lava, unyielding, using their brethren in front as living shields. They had forgotten about her, leaving her propped against the wall like a broken doll, no longer a worthy threat. It was a grievous insult, but she had no more ire left.

The screams of the humans had just begun when her ears heard the sound of more vehicles coming to a sudden stop, the shouts of more men, and then more and more gunfire. Above, another helicopter whipped the air, close enough that it chilled her soaked vessel, but she was too tired to even shiver. Evidently the centaur commander had no more javelins, or perhaps the humans had actually managed to cut him down or otherwise engaged him. Or perhaps he had just wisely retreated. She was in no position to care.

She could see little through the rain, the blinding light, and the bodies of the demons scurrying past. She could barely lift her head, and when she did, the rainwater fell on her face and into her eyes, obscuring her vision. It ran into her mouth as she gasped for air, bitter with the poisons thrown into the atmosphere by the humans. The pain of her injuries; the taste of the rain; the noise of guns and screams; the smell of blood and offal; the distorted, flashing light – she decided that this alley easily competed with some of the hell dimensions she had visited, so long ago.

Humans were weak, and frequently stupid – but in numbers they were formidable, Illyria noted from her position slumped against the alley wall. With reinforcements present and more arriving, the uniformed men and women lost some of their fear and found some of their own fury. The weapons fire blended together into a nonstop cacophony. The demons were being pushed back... the bark of guns slowly came closer, and she could hear shouted orders and imprecations. A heavy body fell across her legs, a demon of unrecognizable type, missing large chunks of flesh and holed through.

Thought was a struggle in the chaos – nearly all the threads of her intellect exhausted to the point of non-function, the few left easily distracted by environment and injury. But it began to dawn on the demoness that, barring all expectation, the battle was being won. Wolfram and Hart was being beaten back. The host of Hell, battered back by a battalion of mortals and their weapons. Again, there was the foreign sensation of amusement.

She might actually survive this... an unexpected development. She couldn't decide whether she was pleased or disappointed. She certainly had little to live for. Would one of the humans shoot her? In her weakened state, it might be enough.

The humans were advancing past her; stepping carefully through the shredded fence and advancing past the bodies of the fallen horde, some piled nearly as high as a man's shoulders. Down the alley, the snarls and shouts of the demons receded slowly.

She shouldn't be here. It was only a matter of time before she was noticed, and she did not know how the humans would react. There was the notion that they would just kill her, yes, but she wouldn't rely on luck like that. More likely they would imprison and study her, something Lorne had warned her of. She had been contemptuous of the idea at the time, but that was before Angel and his followers had weakened her, to save her and themselves. Now the possibility was real, and she took the caution more seriously – not that she would willingly admit it to the green clown.

_Superhero. And this is my power: to not let them take me. Not me._

Now where had that come from? She queried the aspect that had thrown that piece of memory flotsam to the surface. Too late; it was gone, dormant, lost to exhaustion.

She would not let them take her.

She managed to lift an arm, turn her head, looking for an escape route. The idea of hiding amongst the bodies of the fallen was both humiliating and futile, the demon across her legs already beginning to rot at an extreme pace, as most did. Would her vessel do the same, when she was gone? She looked around her, squinting, blinking away water and blood.

There! Just to her left, a window into the basement of the building she lay against. It was secured with a heavy metal lattice, to keep out unwanted visitors. Movement was a terrible effort; she probably did not have the strength to tear through the bars. She would try, though... there was little other choice.

She began gathering her energy for the effort. Her breathing slowed, along with her heartbeat. She pulled in her otherworldly senses, even as she began shutting down aspects of her mind, constricting her consciousness until she was nearly as narrow-focused and limited as a human.

"Ay! Here! Civilian down!"

The shouted words startled Illyria. She had run out of time.

"Ay, lady? You okay?" The masculine, strangely-accented voice queried from just in front of her. A hand reached out and grasped her chin, turning her head to face a soggy, dark-haired human with sienna skin. His weapon was grasped in his right hand, stock tucked under his arm, pointed downward but ready to aim and fire with a moment's reaction. His torso was hidden under a strange, bulky form of armour. His left hand was holding her chin, moving her head so that he could see her face. Had she the energy to spare, she would have torn that arm from its socket as punishment for his impudence.

The light beam from the helicopter swept over them, revealing the odd colour of her hair and skin. Dark, nearly-black eyes met cold, inhuman blue.

"_Madre de Dios_!" The man reeled backwards, pushing away from her. The weapon began to swing upward.

Illyria kicked her legs, sending the body of the dead demon flying into the human. The corpse was too rotted to have sufficient mass to knock him down, but it disrupted his aim and his balance. Her cheeks stung and ears rang as two holes appeared in the brick near her head. Not ducking so much as tipping over, she sprawled to her left, curling her body, bracing her back against the iron bars which blocked her escape. Her hands and feet found purchase on the rough, wet asphalt.

Whom does a fallen god pray to? It was a foolish notion, most particularly for her. Regardless, afterward, she would realize she had made a silent plea in those tight milliseconds as she set herself. She knew not to what deity. An Old One, resurrected in a stolen mortal body, leader of an extinct race, who had no particular desire to continue, had prayed for success. There were too many things wrong with that.

She thrust backwards with all her remaining might even as the human recovered his footing. The iron groaned, and the concrete crumbled. She almost seemed to sink into the building, but it was not enough. The bars were warping considerably, but she was not inside, and she was spent. She hissed with frustration. The man was taking aim.

_Snap!_

With jarring suddenness, the concrete behind her crumbled. The warped metal lattice did not break, but instead the wall it was set in shattered around it. She fell backwards into the hole, surprised, into absolute darkness. The drop was considerable, onto cement of some sort, knocking the breath from her. She fell from noise into noise; a low, steady rumble filled the room, which smelled of dust and rotting organics and burning oil. The air was very warm and heavy.

She did not know where she found the strength to do so, but she crawled. Forward, blindly, she crawled in the darkness, away from the window and the battle, until she bumped into a stack of soft, heavy bags. The air was particularly rank near them. Sacrificing all dignity and pride, she burrowed between them and the wall, until she estimated her entire body was out of immediate view.

Darkness took her.


	2. Escape

"Get up."

An annoying voice pierced the haze Illyria had fallen into, shrill over the roar of the room. Lacking the desire to even open her eyes, she did not move, hoping instead that the voice would go away.

"Get up, Illyria."

Each word dragged her unwillingly toward awareness of the punishment her vessel had received. No part of her did not hurt. What breath she could take in carried the stench of the room. Unconsciousness was vastly preferable.

"Come on, sleepyhead!"

Hissing, she pushed her body to all fours, lifting the soft containers she'd lain under. Rather than crawl out, she knocked them away with one arm, allowing her to stand up but releasing even more of the foul smell, which filled the air and coated her. Staggering to her feet, her hand sought and found the nearby wall, and she leaned against it.

When the sense of vertigo had passed, she risked opening her eyes. The room she had found refuge in was dark and gray; the only illumination came from the window she had bashed through. The frame had apparently collapsed after she'd made it through, as the top of the window was bent inward, and pieces of cinder block and brick hung down. It was daytime, as the shadowy light, while faint, was too diffuse to have come from an electric lamp. Dust and perhaps ash filled the air, floating visibly through the vague beam of light.

The room was dominated by two large, metal boxes, one of which was apparently a furnace, judging from the constant roar and the waves of heat which filled the room. Normally such warmth would have been pleasant, reminding her as it did of primordial times, but it robbed all moisture from the air. If she breathed through her nose, she was assaulted with the smell of rot and oil; through her mouth, the taste of rusting iron and dust. The soft containers she had lain under were garbage bags, old and leaking, the only source of moisture in the room being the sour fluids which dripped from the plastic.

Illyria, Ancient One, the Essence of Rule... had slept in the trash.

And there, standing in the faint light, absolute contrast to the dust and decay, was a human girl-child. No older than six, she wore a pink dress, white stockings, and her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back into a prim braid. She blinked at Illyria with innocent brown eyes, and to complete the ensemble, a doll with red yarn hair was tucked under one arm. Her presence in the dust and filth was utterly ridiculous.

"Good! You're up. I thought you was gonna sleep all day!" the girl-child stated. The small head tilted, as if considering Illyria's current state. "Wow, you're a mess! You should go to th' Hyperion an' get cleaned up." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Best go in disguise, too, there's lotsa police around."

"Who are you?" The demon queen demanded. She cursed her unsteady voice. "How dare you presume to command me?"

"I'm not commandin' you. I was sayin' you should."

"I have no time for the larvae of an insect race. Begone!"

"Hey!" The girl screwed up her face. "I know what that means. I'm no bug!"

The girl's lack of fear was angering Illyria just as much as her insolence. "You are nameless vermin, a fleshy roach," she growled. "And a fool besides, if you think your youth will deter me from tearing out your tongue!"

"_I'm_ no roach! You are! _You_ were the one sleepin' in the trash!" As if daring her to carry out her threat, the girl stuck out her tongue at the demoness.

Snarling, enraged, Illyria reached down for the nearest possible projectile. Which, unfortunately, was one of the trash bags, which tore further and spilled rubbish across her legs and feet as she lifted it. Her temper frayed completely, and she snapped forward, prepared to do harm with her bare hands.

However, when she looked up from the mess at her feet, the child was gone. Illyria's head jerked from side to side, searching. Though dark, other than the trash heap there was nowhere in the room in which to hide. The metal door across the room had not been opened. Her anger disappeared within confusion. She heard faint laughter, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Unsteadily she strode to the door, pausing for a moment to lean against it, gathering her strength. She tugged on the door handle. As she had suspected, it was locked. Even in her badly weakened state she was able to open it, though, tearing loose the simple drop latch which secured the door shut from the other side. A steep, dark staircase rose up beyond it.

Carefully climbing, she met another door at the top. This one was also locked, but was made of aged wood, and opened with even less effort than the first. She stepped into what she recognized as the remains of a kitchen, white and yellowed. Only bare pipes, wires, and slightly less faded linoleum indicated where the stove and sink had once rested. More sunlight was available here, streaming through simple blinds onto the floor and old cupboards. Cans of paint and oil, and boxes stacked into the corners, indicated the room was used for storage.

The hallway toward the front of the building was in similar neglect, blue wallpaper bubbled and peeling. The simple wood flooring was loose and creaked under her steps. She walked carefully, using the wall to steady herself. At the front of the building a set of white wooden stairs, situated near the front porch, climbed to the higher floors. Directly in front of her, past the stairs, was a crude common area – dim with the curtains closed, filled with furniture and carpet which had seen better times, their original colours long since unidentifiable.

A light grinding noise came from her right. There, sprawled upon the stairs, was an unconscious human. He was tattered and filthy, and stank of sweat and alcohol. Long-haired and unshaven, he clutched a mostly-empty bottle beneath his arm.

She advanced into the common area. The air reeked of sour smells, strange chemicals, and even a hint of blood. There were two more people here. One sat on the floor, tipped forward onto a table, unconscious. Strange instruments, and a small quantity of white powder, sat on the table beside him. Just opposite him and Illyria, another young male sat in one of the large, rotting chairs. His dark, unruly hair hung down into his face, over eyes that were open but unseeing. Specks of foam gathered around his mouth.

Discarding them as a concern, Illyria walked past them to the dark, stained curtains which covered the large window. Muffled activity, machines, and shouted voices could be heard outside. Carefully, she parted the curtains with her fingers.

Outside was bedlam. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of humans scurried about. A set of yellow obstacles had been arranged across the street, cutting it down to a single lane of traffic, blocking access to the nearby alleyway which extended behind the building. Men and women, some in dark blue outfits, others in green, stood motionless and expressionless, guarding the area. Many bore the large guns which Illyria had gained respect for the previous night. Vehicles of varying sizes were everywhere, and even as she watched, a large truck, its cargo area covered in green fabric, navigated the crowd with the assistance of warnings and threats. It rolled down the alley, out of her view.

The barricades seemed meant to keep the rest of the humans out of the alley. These people stood just on the other side, blocking the remainder of the street; a rude, unruly throng, loud and barely obedient. Men and women in business attire, with microphones, notepads, and cameras, shouted questions which were ignored by the uniformed men and women. Others, some dressed casually, some not, merely craned their necks to see what they could see. One man with a camera attempted to sneak past the barricades, and was apprehended by a pair of guards. Oddly enough, they did not execute him as an example, but merely manhandled him back into the crowd.

Illyria's main concern, however, was that the protected area extended beyond the entrance to the building she was in. Any rear exit would take her back into the alley, so she didn't consider looking for one. The only viable route was through the front door... and she doubted a woman with blue hair and skin would escape notice in broad daylight.

She would have to don her Winnifred Burkle appearance. This disturbed her, because the disappearing child had recommended she do so. Illyria did not like the idea of being controlled, no matter how indirectly.

Since the alternative was capture or slaughter at the humans' hands, Illyria resigned herself to do what she had to do. For uncountable millennia, need had been synonymous with want for her. It was galling, how often now she was forced to take actions she despised. Spike would have called adaptation. Illyria called it injustice.

Letting the curtain fall closed again, the blue demoness closed her eyes and concentrated. She felt the tingle as her shell re-coloured itself, the slide along her skin as her bodysuit reshaped itself to her will. Looking up, she strode toward the front door.

The porch contained a small mirror, which was cracked and dusty. As she reached for the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in it. She paused, disturbed by how much her aches and general depletion had effected her shell.

Her leathery bodysuit, obedient, had reformed itself into a copy of some of the plainest clothing she could think of: plain faded jeans, and a loose gray t-shirt. However, the trash she had slept under and spilled on herself, which had coated her bodysuit, had soaked into the new emulated fabric. The jeans and shirt now bore numerous blotches of brown and green.

Nor did she fare better – injury was injury, no matter which exterior appearance she chose. The face in the mirror was red and blotchy, and her arms sported numerous dark bruises. The normally bright brown eyes were heavy and bloodshot. Even her dark hair hung limp and dull.

Overall, she looked terrible, and she knew it. It seemed unlikely she would escape note in this condition, but she lacked other options. She refused to stay another moment in this decaying building with its decaying human occupants.

She grasped the front door and pulled it open. Instantly, the noise increased tenfold, and she winced under the assault. Unobtrusively, she walked down the few steps to the sidewalk, pulling the door closed behind her, as she assumed she would be expected to. Ducking her head, she put her hands into her pockets and walked toward the closest point of the barricades, just across the street, intending to blend into the mass of people. Her eyes scanned from side to side, to see if she was being observed.

Over to her left, she saw the man who had shot at her the night before. He sat on the gate of a pickup truck while a uniformed woman with latex gloves tended a gash, which stretched from his temple along the side of his face to just under his jaw. Likely that had been the reason he had not pursued her into the basement the night before. He looked up, and their eyes met. He squinted at her with a puzzled expression, but she jerked her head away, and attempted to walk with greater speed toward the police line.

"Hey!"

She cursed – noticed, merely a third of the way remaining to her goal. So much for merely walking past.

A large human approached her. He was dressed in the same dark blue outfit and armour as the rest, and his weapon was slung over his shoulder, near at hand. The bulky vest was covered in small pockets, and nameless tools Illyria could not identify hung from his belt. More weapons were strapped to his legs. He looked ready for anything – except perhaps a hidden former god – and she allowed herself some mild appreciation. "Landon" was written on one breast of his vest, "SWAT" on the other. "Landon" sounded far more like a human name than "SWAT"; and since many of the blue-clad humans had the same words written on their backs, she concluded this was his group's name.

He was tall, taller than Charles Gunn; and even more strongly built, reminding her uncomfortably of Hamilton. However, his skin was fair, and his hair, short and spiked, was nearly white. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, useful in the increasingly bright daylight. As he approached, he loomed over the disguised demoness. She tensed despite herself.

"You shouldn't be here, this is a restricted area. Can't you see that?" His tone was angry and authoritative.

Illyria forced herself to adhere to the Burkle role, stuttering and timid. "S-sorry. I was... was just goin' home..." A calculated glance at his face, then staring at her own feet.

"Where did you come from? What were-" He stopped suddenly, seeing her ragged appearance, how she seemed barely able to stand. Behind the glasses, his eyes narrowed. "Are you all right? What happened to you?" he demanded.

"I... I'm fine," she replied, though for a brief second she wavered on her feet. "I just had a really bad night."

Landon stepped forward, and she steeled herself, prepared to fight. He did not attempt to touch her, however, instead wrinkling his nose and forming an expression of disgust as he caught a whiff of the trash she had lain in. He looked at her once more, suspiciously; noting the dark circles under her eyes, the bruises and cuts on her arms, her filthy clothing. He glanced back at the building she had emerged from and scowled.

"Look," he said after a moment, "it's your lucky day. I don't have time for this kind of crap now." He sighed. "Just go home and sleep it off. And for your own sake... try to get some help, okay?"

She didn't entirely understand his insinuation, but she recognized condescension and guessed that whatever he had implied was extremely insulting. Only a titanic effort of will kept her from gutting him on the spot.

Swallowing her pride, rationalizing to herself that it was acceptable so long as he thought he was talking to another lowly human, she managed to spit out a reluctant thanks. If he noticed her face flush with rage, he must have misinterpreted it as humiliation, and proof of his suspicions. Not sparing her another glance, he waved her past the cordon. She strode past as quickly as her weakened legs could carry, letting the crowd swallow her.

The Hyperion was on the other side of the block. She quickly made her way there, avoiding the many uniformed men and women and ignoring the others. People seemed inclined to avoid getting too close to her, which suited Illyria just fine. She noted that some seemed to go out of their way to avoid noticing her altogether, a human foible which she made note of.

Soon she was walking up the short entrance to the old hotel. The building was left just as the shell's memories had indicated, the grass and foliage on either side of the courtyard grown wild and unchecked, just the way the fallen goddess preferred. As she walked past the ugly stone statue which interrupted the path, the silence, where she should have heard the faint music of the plants, became oppressive. She felt again the loss of her divine grace, her connection to the greater whole of the universe.

She had lost so much since her reawakening – some of which she hadn't even realized she valued.

As expected, the front of the hotel was locked. She was about to tear the handle loose when something made her stop. She paused – a memory, brandished unsolicited by one of her threads of consciousness. Turning around, she walked back to the statue, and tilted it back by the pedestal. Underneath the base there lay a key to the front door, which she plucked from the ground, letting the statue thump back into place. A human would not have had the strength to look under the statue, and the average demon would have lacked the intelligence.

How she knew the key was to the front door, much less hidden there in the first place, escaped Illyria for the moment. Undoubtedly a memory from the shell, but she could not recall calling it forth. While convenient, the incident was vaguely disturbing. She resolved to explore the possible explanations at a later time, as she unlocked the door and stepped into the building.

The lobby was dim, and utterly silent. She stretched out with what remained of her senses, seeking unwelcome visitors; she neither heard nor felt other beings within the building, but the center of the lobby possessed the faint aftertaste of strong and varied magics. Though she had lost the majority of her higher perceptiveness, the faded feel of warped time and portal energies were unmistakable to demoness.

As she climbed the stairs to the upper floors, a strange feeling settled over her – as if the air itself had begun to thicken. For no reason she could name, she felt compelled to walk softly, to breathe quietly, to make her very presence as minimal as possible. Though she had not been to this place before, the hotel felt incomplete, as if something was missing, a piece she could not name or recognize but for the hole its absence left.

Then, on the second floor, she heard a sound... a child's giggle. Scowling, shifting to her proper form, she advanced slowly down the corridor. It was dimly lit, the sconces along the walls darkened, casting the aged elegance of the building into a mute, oppressive gray.

She followed the laughter down the hall. Whenever she was unsure where to go, she paused, and listened, and the voice would be heard again. A giggle; a gasp; sometimes some unintelligible words. Soon, she stood in front of one particular door. Quietly, she took hold of the door handle.

Within the room, she heard the child's voice again.

With sudden motion Illyria twisted the knob, nearly wrenching it entirely out of the door. Bursting inward, the door flew open to bang against the doorstop on the inner wall. Within, she discovered... nothing. There was no one.

The room was decorated simply and functionally; a small bed occupied one corner, a low dresser along the wall opposite. A closet was to her left, and a short hall to the right of the bed led to the bathroom. The subdued atmosphere of the hotel dominated here as well; there were no windows, the room isolated from the sun and the world, but the cheery pink paint helped prevent the room from being positively dank.

Confused – and irritated as a result – Illyria carefully searched the room; the closet, the small bathroom, even under the bed. Always, she kept the door to the hallway in view, to insure nothing could sneak past her. She found nothing, and no one. The room had the smell of humanity, but the scent was faint and aged, indicating it had been a long while since anyone had been there. With annoyance, she concluded that the room was empty, and she was, in fact, alone. She would have sighed, if inclined toward such pointless gestures.

She discarded the idea that she might have imagined what she heard. Though she might inhabit the barely-tolerable flesh of a human, her mind was very much her own, vast and disciplined. She possessed no subconscious of the kind humans liked to assign their own instincts and mental failings.

She needed rest. A chance to let her damaged vessel repair itself, an opportunity to review and organize the memories she had accumulated. To discover what had – what was – happening to her. And to consider her future, if there was to be one.

But first, a shower. Her own grime was unbecoming, and she would tolerate it no longer. One room was as good as another, so she opted for the bathroom already nearby. She was pleased to note that the shower provided hot water, despite the seemingly abandoned state of the hotel. Likely, the half-breed Angel had intended it as a place of emergency retreat and respite, and kept it prepared for such an eventuality.

She entered the stream of water still wearing her armour, letting the spray wash away the filth and stains of fluids she didn't care to name. Then with a mental command the bodysuit faded away, letting the nearly-scalding water run over her skin.

On first mention she had been insulted by the entire process of cleaning her shell... the very concept of her skin oozing smelly fluids which collected dust and grime had disgusted her in the extreme. However, once she experienced it, Illyria had been forced to conclude – privately – that the whole thing was actually very pleasant and relaxing. Also amusing had been Wesley's discomfort as he guided her through the process, his words becoming unsteady and his face and body becoming flushed as she had unashamedly removed her clothing.

_Damnable mortal emotions!_ Angrily, she chided the aspect which had decided to bring _him_ to mind. But it was done; her gut clenched and her knees wavered slightly. Grief, that most offensive of human reactions, washed over her with far colder effect than the hot water. Here, there were no hordes of monsters to slaughter as a distraction, no impending likelihood of death. Smashing bathroom tile would not provide sufficient challenge.

She clenched her fists, and with pure will, hammered her emotions back into proper shape. Fiercely, she grabbed the bottle of shampoo which lay on the sill of the tub, nearly crushing it. She squeezed a dollop into her hand, and the scent of watermelon spread amongst the steam. It was not altogether unpleasant, and eager for a distraction, she spent a few moments smelling the clear pink liquid. It was calming and reassuring, though she knew not why this would be so.

Quickly finishing the rest of the procedure, she shut off the water and wrapped her body in a large towel. She returned to the main room.

While letting her shell air-dry slightly, the demoness explored further. She noted that this place had been occupied before, though was now abandoned. Some small items were left – a piece of glass art hung on the wall, a piece of long-stale candy sat on the night table. On the dresser lay few books, all with completely inscrutable titles to Illyria: _Extremal Combinatorics_, _Dirac Operators in Analysis_, and others. She felt no need to peruse them, instead opening a dresser drawer at random.

The first was empty, as was the second. The third, however, contained some stockings... and a photograph. She reached in, picking it up to view in the dim light of the room. And concluded that the very universe itself was laughing at her.

The photo was of the shell... Winnifred Burkle. She sat on the sofa in the hotel lobby, holding a human baby. The scene was brightly lit, colours full and flavourful, and she was grinning widely at the camera. She was happy and vibrant. Illyria guessed that the baby was Connor, and the picture had been taken long before Angel and his followers had arrived at the operations of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. Long before an Old One escaped from the Deeper Well and consumed Fred, body and soul.

And now that Old One was standing in the shell's former room. Making use of the shell's former possessions. The universe possessed infinite cruelty. Had she been led here? Was she now to be tormented by memories of Winnifred without, while she was tormented by memories of Wesley within? Her punishment, for destroying their union?

Rest. She needed rest. This turbulent, nonstop ride of human emotion was undoubtedly caused by exhaustion. Crumpling the photo, she tossed it back into the drawer.

Briefly, Illyria considered occupying a different room. Something about this one affected her on a level she couldn't quantify. But no; she would not. She would not run from something so ephemeral as phantoms and feelings. She would stay; she would subdue these despicable human emotions and these unruly memories.

Still clad in her towel, she sat upon the bed. Her exhaustion, in body, spirit, and mind, made entering a meditative state nearly automatic. Gunn had once referred to it as her "reverie". The description was apt; her recollection was vast beyond mortal measure, built over the countless eons of her existence before her time in the Well. She was capable of perceiving far more than a mortal, and remembering it all in perfect detail. While she meditated this information would be organized, while the central core of her personality lay dormant.

She had never looked forward to her meditations quite so much as she did now.

As she sank into the quiescent state, another impression was suddenly thrown up from the recesses of the demoness' mind. Instead of despair, or desperation, this one carried with it feelings of warmth and safety. A gentle caress. A woman's voice, full of love.

_There sweetie, it's alright. Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep... I'll be right here._

Desperate to escape, Illyria flung herself down the labyrinth of memory.


	3. Orphaned

When Illyria brought herself back to full awareness, it was to a much greater sense of well-being. Her vessel had nearly fully healed itself, and her aspects were now all active and thinking in their proper patterns.

Her internal time sense indicated indicated that she had been meditating for over one and half days. This was disconcerting; she hadn't realized she was that badly hurt. It was impressive that she had been able to function at all. Grudgingly, she granted some respect towards the human shell and its ability to take damage.

She stood, letting the towel she wore drop onto the bed. With a thought, she willed her body armour back into being. As an extension of herself, it had healed along with her; and as it spread to cover her skin no marks or rents were visible.

One of her threads of consciousness signaled, summoning her primary attention. She had not woken due to being fully healed, but rather due to her senses detecting activity within the building. She was not alone.

She had once mentioned to the half-breed, Spike, that it was very near impossible to surprise her. He of course, with his limited mindset, had assumed she was boasting and disregarded the statement. Since it was below her to argue with lesser beings, she had let him think whatever he chose. Wesley... a jolt of grief rippled through her, though not so strong as before... Wesley, being more intelligent, had been more capable of grasping the concept. She could not easily be surprised because she could not easily be caught unaware.

The other followers of the half-breed Angel had seen her naivety to the modern world, her direct, simple approach to problems, and assumed she was as equally simplistic. A sword has many parts, many qualities. The sharp edge is simple and plain. However, the edge is the part most beings concern themselves with – particularly when on the receiving end.

Wesley, with proper tutelage, had been able to absorb the concept that she was, by nature, a multidimensional being – both within and without. Her mind operated on multiple levels simultaneously. She was, quite literally, capable of concentrating on multiple things at once. At the peak of her power, she could have dozens of aspects planning and plotting, carrying out the current phases of her will – even while she considered the next avenue of conquest. She had not spoken figuratively when she told Wesley of living seven lives at once.

With the loss of a great portion of her power her ability to do so had been greatly curtailed. Her resurrection, her binding to a mortal body, the draining of her strength to prevent a disastrous overload – these had all cost her dearly. Her divine multiplicity was the barest shadow of what it had once been. And of course the humans and half-breeds had proven themselves well capable of surprising her, even despite her inherent advantages.

Now, though, her remaining ability proved its worth, as the portion of her mind that guarded her while she meditated gave her warning. This being, this uninvited visitor, would not catch her unawares. Perhaps she might be the one doing the surprising. Perhaps, even, the being would be the aggravating girl-child. The thought of the small face twisted in terror sent warmth through the demon queen.

She slid down the hallway cautiously. It was night, and the entire hotel was cast into darkness, but nevertheless she crouched to be less visible, as she approached the balcony that overlooked the central area. The thin pile of the carpet muffled her steps as she crept, with more grace and power than any jungle cat, down the bleak corridor toward the lobby. She paused on the balcony, scanning the large open area with her extended senses.

The intruder appeared to be making little attempt at stealth. Almost directly below her, in the area of the front desk, she could hear the rustle of papers, the shifting of equipment. A beam of light bathed the lobby from outside the front door, painting white squares on the marble and edging the large, round couch in the center with silver highlights. She noted no light coming from the source of the sounds, no play of shadows from a flashlight. The being did not seem to be overly inconvenienced by the lack of light; not human, then. All the better.

She positioned herself just above where she estimated the being to be; and then, taking hold of the railing, flung herself over. She landed on the floor with a thump, her boots not shifting or bouncing a millimeter after making contact with the polished marble floor. The being stood directly in front of Illyria, with his back facing her. Displaying impressive reflexes, though, he was already starting to react, turning. She was faster, her arm arcing around to take him about the neck. Long, brown hair rubbed her face, and her nostrils were filled with the scent of human.

He stiffened, and an elbow crashed against her ribs. It was a good strike, far stronger than any mere human should have been capable. But also far from sufficient. Rather than breaking his neck, she spun, swinging him about, and sent him hurling over the couch to the other side of the lobby. He hit the floor with a grunt and slid into the wall.

She strode confidently in pursuit, but he flipped to his feet and readied himself into a fighting stance. Illyria halted her advance as they met eyes across the darkness, deep blue to icy blue, and they both saw who their opponent was.

"You!" exclaimed Connor.

Illyria tilted her head in her odd, birdlike manner. "You," she parroted.

"I thought one of Wolfram's goons was ambushing me! Jesus, what did you do that for?" The boy started to straighten, but then paused. "You're Fr-..um... Illyria, right? You're _not_ working for Wolfram and Hart, are you?"

It was a valid question, from his position, so she chose not to be offended. "I am not. They are my enemy."

"Okay, so we don't need to fight?"

"It would appear not." He relaxed his fighting stance with a sigh. "Explain your presence here", she demanded.

He looked at her askance, frowning. She stared back, unyielding, her skin seeming to possess a faint blue glow in the pale light and darkness. The effect was oddly beautiful, and she was attractive, but it made her seem to be made of ice. And there certainly no warmth to be found in her expression.

He gestured widely with his hands, indicating the building. "I _own_ this place. At least I think I do, judging from the letter I got by courier today." He swung an arm, working out a kink in his shoulder from where he had struck the floor. "Jesus", he muttered.

He walked over to the couch and plunked himself down into it, slouching. His beige pants and shirt hung loose, and he tossed his hair out of his eyes. It was on the tip of Illyria's tongue to complain about his posture and his clothing, but she forcefully shoved the aspect that suggested it to the back of her consciousness. Instead, she merely continued to stare at him.

He looked up, catching her steady gaze. He looked down again, and sighed. "Dad gave me this place. Just the deed, signed over into my name. No letter or explanation. I haven't seen him since the fight at Wolfram and Hart. I came here to see if I could find him, or something to find out what happened."

"Angel is dead."

Connor's head snapped up. He stared at her, wide-eyed. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Her head tilted again, observing this strange behavior. "He... he's _what_?"

"Dead. He died while we fought the forces of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. He battled a dragon, and won, but the fires of its death-"

"Enough!" he shouted suddenly. "Jesus Christ! What the hell is the matter with you? Is this how they do things on your planet?" He gestured violently. "'Hey kid, how's it going, your father's dead, what's new'? Don't you feel anything?" He leaned forward, hiding his face in his hands.

Illyria was confused, and disturbed. "You hated him. You made several attempts to kill him..."

"I did hate him. I used to. That was before..." He looked up at her, and then back down to the floor. "He gave it up. He gave me up, so I'd be happy. So I'd just be me. He gave it all up, so I'd have a shot at being happy." He hid again, the light from the door falling across his shoulders like a shawl, casting his face and hands into shadow.

As she watched him, her own gut clenched as increasingly familiar emotions churned within. Several aspects demanded she do something, but had no suggestions of what. Finally, she managed to work her voice. "Your father... he... fought extremely well. He made a difference."

He looked up at her again, eyes reddened. He watched her speculatively for a moment, making her oddly uncomfortable, but seemed to understand what she wasn't saying. "Thanks," he said, softly, then looked away.

The silence drew out uncomfortably. Finally, he asked with a steadier voice, "So, what are you doing here, anyway?"

"I was badly damaged in the battle before the human forces became involved. In the confusion after they arrived, I managed to... retreat... and I came here to recuperate."

Connor looked at her, worried. "Are you all right? There's a medical kit here..."

"My injuries are healed. Your concern is unnecessary."

"Oh. Okay." He rubbed his hands. "So you saw them, the police. I imagine they saw you. I suppose, being stuck here, you haven't heard about everything going on."

"I have not. To what do you refer?"

Connor stood and faced her. "Things are really a mess now. Lots of people saw Wolfram and Hart's little army. Hell, a news helicopter caught the whole thing. Twelve cops died. The demons weren't just interested in those fighting, either... they went after ordinary people, too."

He looked at her with intensity, reminding her a great deal of his father. "People _know_, now. They know about demons and vampires and other monsters. They're noticing things they haven't before. And they're not happy about it."

"And what does this mean?"

"It means they're scared, and they're striking out. It's getting like something out of a movie. If people even suspect you're not human, you're in big trouble. My friends at the hospital have had three people come into the emergency room, beaten nearly to death, just because they looked weird. And I imagine there are plenty of real demons out there, even the harmless ones, who aren't having it so lucky.

"And if that wasn't enough, now that the 'bad' demons don't have to hide, it's party time for them. It's turning into a war zone out there."

Suddenly Connor turned away, and threw open his arms, shouting at the hotel. "Thanks, Dad! You made your statement! You changed the world! Thanks for the _fucking_ going away present!"

Illyria stepped forward, hissing. "Do not speak so."

Swinging around to face her, he stared incredulously. "What? Don't you get it? This affects you, too! Those people out there aren't going to care that you saved the world. All they're going to do is look at you and say _demon_, and suddenly you're the enemy! All because Dad and Wolfram and Hart had to take their little war onto the streets!"

Connor's words angered her, though she knew not why. She had no idea why she need care at all. "I do not understand your species. You jump at shadow. Darkness holds all terrors for you, both real and imagined. Yet one comes forth to tear away the shadows, to cast light and reveal all, and you despise him for it. Are you truly so addicted to fear?"

A thought occurred to the demoness. "Or is it not the darkness without that you fear, but the darkness within?"

There was a moment of silence. Then Connor spoke. "'If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.'"

Illyria considered the metaphor. "Wise words."

He snorted. "Friedrich Nietzsche. He wasn't exactly rational."

"Sanity is frequently a manner of majority opinion."

"Yeah, well I'm not sure whether I like how the definition is changing right now."

Illyria responded slowly, willing him to understand. "This war you speak of has always raged. It always will. This was the truth your father grasped before he conceived of his plan. What he sought was to end the manipulation, to destroy those who would use humanity as a means of its own destruction. Your people can participate in their own defense now, see their enemies for who and what they are. See _themselves_ for who and what they are." Was she speaking favourably of humanity? Impossible.

She stepped closer. Words came to Illyria's mind, some of the last words _he_ had spoken to her. "It is necessary to separate truth from illusion," she said softly, almost to herself.

Finally, Connor looked at her, meeting her eyes. He said nothing, but she could tell her words had effect. She had not said anything he had not already considered, but he had wanted assurance. She didn't know why she gave it, didn't know why his opinion mattered at all, but the words had flowed. As the only adult available who would understand, he had listened to her.

It was not worship... but she found it oddly gratifying.

"It's really messy out there," he commented.

"Revolutions always are."

Connor sat back down on the couch, letting his elbows rest on his knees. The silence drew out between them.

"I miss him already," he said, softly.

_I understand._ But this was one thing she could not say.

He glanced up at where she stood, watching him without expression. "So what will you do now?"

The question caught her off guard. She had not yet considered her own future... her very continued existence defied expectation. "I... am not sure. My survival of the battle was not anticipated. I find myself... adrift. Your world is small, but complex. I believe I am inadequately prepared to survive within it."

"Did any of the others make it?"

"No. I am... alone."

Connor nodded sympathetically. "Well, since this place appears to be mine now, you're welcome to stay as long as you want." She would have stayed if she chose regardless of his permission – but Illyria avoided stating that, instead nodding silently. "There's still plenty of books in the office there. I'll see if I can find the breaker box and turn the electricity back on tomorrow. Other than that, uh..." He looked at her. "What do you eat?"

"I do not require food as you mortals do."

"Oh. Alright. That's good, I didn't want you to have to go out to find dinner. Especially if it's the two-legged variety," he muttered the last part under his breath.

The demoness scowled. "Wesley extracted a promise from me that I would not kill humans unless necessary. Do you require a reaffirmation of that vow?"

"No... I'll trust you," he replied, after a moment. "Although at some point I might want to find out just what 'necessary' means."

She opened her mouth to elaborate, but he held up a hand, offering a weak smile to avoid angering her. "I have to get home. My parents don't know about this. They're not sure what to think about anything in the past couple of days, really, and they're pretty worried about me. And I've got a lot to think about."

Connor stood and walked toward the front door. Illyria watched him as he left, silent. When his hand touched the front door, though, she found her lips moving. "When will you be back?"

The question was asked in her normal near-monotone, but the perceptive young man seemed to hear something more. He half-turned, giving her a sad but reassuring smirk. "I have to attend a couple of lectures tomorrow, and pass in a residency application. But I'll try to be here tomorrow afternoon." His expression turned more jovial. "Please don't throw me across the room."

Her only reaction to his humour was to tilt her head, but his faint smile remained in place as he opened and shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock it. She watched his dark shape disappear down the path to the hotel.

For long moments, she stood there; a dark figure in a dark room, standing inhumanly still just outside the white square of street light that shone in through the door. She was thinking; allowing her aspects to argue amongst themselves as she sometimes permitted.

Connor's presence had eased some of the roiling emotion within her; his trust, his desire for her wisdom – while perhaps naive and foolish – had been pleasing in a manner she had not experienced since her awakening in this new world. Yet now she was experiencing concern again. She wasn't sure it could be considered an improvement.

"He's lost."

Illyria's head snapped about, violently. There, within the faint shadow at the base of the staircase, stood the girl-child. She was different; older, approximately eight. The impractical dress had been exchanged for simple jeans and a white t-shirt, which hung loosely on her small frame. Sandals and stockings were traded for white sneakers with inexpertly tied laces. But it was unmistakably the same girl; she wore the same braid, although it was frizzy and loose; and the same brown eyes stared back at the demoness, seeming to possess knowledge out of scale with her physical age. The knees of her jeans were stained with dirt, as were her shoes and face, shadows within the shadow.

The demon queen hissed. Fingers curled into claws, and she readied herself to pounce should the girl attempt to disappear again.

Before Illyria could make demands, or attack, the girl began to cry. Illyria blinked, confused.

The child spoke again. "He's lost, an' everybody's lost, an' it's sad," she managed to say between sniffles. "He knows what he's 'pposed ta be, an' what he was, an' he's all turned 'round, 'cause he dunno which one's right. An' now the one who was 'pposed to tell him which was right is gone, too."

For the first time in her long existence, Illyria found herself utterly speechless. She could only stare, confused by the girl's words. Tears rolled down the child's cheeks, creating tracks in the smudged dirt, dripping off her chin. She rubbed one of her eyes with the heel of her hand, her sniffles seeming to echo loudly in the total silence of the hotel.

"_Who are you?_" Illyria demanded, harshly, almost desperately.

The girl wiped her face with her arm, smudging the dirt and staining her sleeve. She stared at the ground, not meeting the ancient one's gaze. "I'm lost," she said in a small voice.

Before Illyria could react, the girl turned, and began walking slowly up the stairs. Her slender body disappeared from view for a moment, behind one of the thick marble pillars.

And did not emerge from the other side.


	4. Home of Knowledge

For over two weeks, Illyria remained at the Hyperion hotel. Connor remained true to his word and visited frequently – in fact, he made it a point of using the Hyperion as a place to continue his studies. The building was quiet, and certainly his companion was not inclined towards meaningless banter... although the young man learned in fairly short order to set aside a block of time if he decided to "wind her up" – his words – with a question or comment. Illyria, for her part, spent her time meditating... or reading.

At first Connor had been excessively concerned about entertaining the demoness, as if he did not she might relieve her boredom through some manner of mayhem. She quickly put a stop to this, stating in no uncertain terms her opinion of human television, human games, and the human need to be distracted from anything and everything. She was older than his species; she had watched empires rise and fall. She was capable of getting through an afternoon in his absence without some form of misbehavior.

He hadn't quite believed her, but at least stopped blatantly pestering her. Instead what he did was bring her a book, under the pretense of a gift. It was a writing by Nietzsche, the human philosopher Connor had quoted the night he had met her at the hotel. He had presented the book with the comment that Illyria and Nietzsche "would get along great", which she had not understood.

To her own surprise, she read the book cover to cover, and pronounced Nietzsche uncommonly intelligent... for a human. Connor had been amused, and then the next day had given her a copy of Sun Tzu's _Art of War_. Illyria was pleased to discover that she could read any language with which the shell had been familiar; for once, latent memories of Winifred Burkle were working with her, rather than against her.

In short order, she was reading every book she could get her hands on in the hotel. Wesley had left behind some simple texts on demonology, which she found very useful, giving her lethal information for over a hundred types of demon which she had not yet encountered. Angel had a history text, which detailed a large war the humans had waged just a few generations before. Cordelia's desk contained a stack of Cosmo magazines. Illyria ignored those.

The ancient one couldn't explain her own behavior. The writings of the humans were puerile, sometimes annoying, frequently meaningless. Yet the task of reading helped focus her aspects, bringing respite from the roiling chaos which had set into her mind. Helped distract her from the realization that she was now effectively alone, weakened, living isolated in a single human dwelling on a single world in a single plane. Helped her forget that as far as the world was concerned, she was now irrelevant.

Connor was amused by how quickly she tore through the available literature once he got her started. When she'd depleted what the Hyperion had to offer, he surprised her in return with an unexpected offer: to accompany him to the library.

He couched the offer well; an offhand invitation that she come along while he did his own research for a paper. Illyria's strategic mind was not fooled – this was a test, an opportunity for him to observe how she would behave when presented to the general populace. She found that she was pleased by the notion. The boy held promise... with proper nurturing, he could grow to possess subtly and cunning to match his father.

She accepted without hesitation, and Connor had begun to speculate on means of hiding her demonic nature, since the human population was so sensitive and nervous. Without a word, she had shifted to her Burkle appearance in front of him.

Connor had looked surprised, and for a moment, upset. Illyria had feared she'd made a mistake, remembering words spoken by both Wesley and Spike. After a pause, though, Connor had recovered, merely shrugging and commenting, "Yeah... that'll work."

And now they were on their way, an enhanced human and an ancient demon walking the streets of Los Angeles to visit the library. Illyria did not possess the emotional capacity to see the humour of the situation, but she could recognize that it certainly wasn't something the average person would expect.

The Old One would not allow herself to stare and gawk at the city like a tourist. But her eyes snapped back and forth as she walked beside Connor, trying to take in everything. She'd not really had the opportunity to see the city in daylight before; Wesley had never offered to take her sightseeing, and the half-breeds were incapable of going out during the daylight. So this trip was the first opportunity Illyria had to see the human city in full light.

The architecture was not beautiful. Indeed, the humans had far too great a fondness for steel and concrete, and too little appreciation for stone and wood and green. The noise was raucous, as the din of the city blended together into a river of sound. And, as always, the smells offended the demoness tremendously; the scents of cars, sewage, and humanity assailing her sharp senses.

Yet what Illyria could not deny was being moderately impressed that the humans had created all this _themselves_. The majority had no magical skills to speak of. There were no obvious divine influences, beyond those that attempted to stalemate Wolfram and Hart and the others like them. No, all that she saw, ugly and small and noisy though it was, had been wrought by mortal hands and minds.

Even as she walked beside Connor down the cracked concrete sidewalk, observing the city around her, part of her mind wondered about the other gods and demons, greater and lesser, which had gained some temporary position over this world. Were their days numbered as well? Would they be defeated, not by another god, but by a planet full of mortals who simply didn't care about them anymore? Thanks to Angel, the humans were actively resisting the machinations of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart... whether they realized it or not. Would those beings soon find themselves taking up residence in the Deeper Well?

Such weighty thoughts occupied some of her aspects during the entire length of the walk. It was a fairly long journey, though neither Illyria nor Connor complained. The open space and sunlight was pleasing after so many days inside the Hyperion. Connor had offered to summon a taxi, but she had insisted on the walk, with a side comment about not wishing to be seen in one of the ugly, smelly, bright-yellow vehicles. It had also neatly side-stepped admitting that she found the idea of being trapped within the small metal boxes suffocating.

Soon, though, Connor was leading her up some stone steps in front of a fairly nondescript building, which was pleasantly surrounded by a modest amount of grass and painstakingly-maintained gardens. He politely held the door for her as they entered, a custom she found rather foolish, but the fallen goddess was quite willing to accept any deference she could get. Together, they walked up the short but wide concrete steps on the other side, into the main area of the library.

The building itself was relatively new, built using more modern techniques of concrete and stainless steel. Broad windows dominated the walls, allowing in as much natural light as possible, but was kept from harming the books overmuch by soft white drapes. Thin gray carpet covered the floors to muffle sound, and broad white tables were arranged around the room next to the windows. The center area was dominated by racks and racks of nothing but books, stacked neatly in order upon beige metal shelves.

There were humans here, but their behavior was so comparatively subdued that Illyria found it easy to ignore their presence. An aged man sat in a soft, plush chair in the corner, a heavy volume supported on his crossed leg, his fingers rubbing his neatly trimmed gray beard as he studied. A younger male sat at a table, his balding head bent over a text, one hand marking his place amongst the words while the other scribbled notes into a notebook A couple, barely Connor's age, sat at a table in an isolated corner, ignoring their own reading in favour of stealing kisses from each other when they thought no one was observing them. Other beings walked softly among the books, quietly seeking titles within the vast repository.

For no reason Illyria could name, a gentle thrill ran through her, and then a sense of quietude she had not experienced within a time she could immediately remember. Here was a place where silence and contemplation held sway – and for a moment, it did not matter to her that it belonged to lowly humans.

Had she always possessed this inclination? Illyria didn't know – the primordium was not conducive to quiet time. But being in this place helped calm the endless churning of her aspects, brought a brief interruption to the foreign emotions which more and more frequently bubbled to the surface of her rational mind. For a moment, the ancient demon knew peace.

Connor seemed to pick up on her contentment, speaking softly in her ear from beside her. "I have to visit the biology and medical sciences section, they're downstairs. The political science and history sections are just over there." He pointed out the sections as he named them. "There aren't many rules here – just that we try to be quiet, books need to be checked out before we can take them out of the building, and books marked 'reference' aren't allowed to leave at all."

It was on the tip of her tongue to comment that only humans made noise for the sake of noise, but for once, she resisted. "I understand."

Connor smiled sideways at her. "You can borrow on my card, just give me the books before we leave. Don't get too crazy – the books have to be returned in two weeks, and my pack isn't that big. Otherwise," he gestured grandly at the huge room, "enjoy!"

Connor patted her on the shoulder as he walked off toward the stairs which lay just behind the checkout desk. Since he was doing her a service, she permitted him the contact without causing him harm. Quickly, he was forgotten, as she made her way over to the shelves.

Illyria spent nearly an hour browsing amongst the books, letting her feet and eyes take her wherever they will. Restricting her selections was proving to be difficult; she was continually replacing books in her current stack with new titles she had decided she preferred. The idea that she would be in any way limited was irritating, but neither was she willing to embarrass herself by looking overeager.

She was in the process of reviewing a new possibility when, out of the corner of her perception, she glimpsed a young girl, slender in body, with long brown hair in a braid. Illyria's head snapped about, but the figure was already disappearing behind one of the shelves. Jamming the book she was examining under her arm with the rest, the demoness dashed off in pursuit. She rounded the corner just in time to see the girl disappear around another shelf. She followed quickly, just barely restraining herself from running. She thought she heard a familiar giggle, but was unsure.

The game of cat-and-mouse continued for several minutes, covering nearly the whole area of the upper floor of the library. The Old One was continually just a half-second too late in her chase, never seeing more than a glimpse of her target. She was relatively fortunate that the library was largely unoccupied, being approximately the time for the humans' traditional evening meal. As it was, Illyria plowed past one middle-aged man in the English Literature section, knocking his book from his hands an eliciting a curse as she rushed by.

Finally, she spotted a small form with brown hair standing near a smaller set of shelves close to the front of the library. She bolted forward, seizing a shoulder with her free hand and yanking the child about, none too gently, to face her.

She froze in surprise as a small boy stared up at her, face white with fear. His hair was the right colour, but was too young, and otherwise looked not at all like the girl she sought. Illyria's head jerked back and forth, eyes wide, seeking her true quarry.

Beneath her hand, the boy recovered his wits, and began jerking about in her grasp. "Hey! Leggo!"

Her eyes snapped back to him, as if only just remembering she held him there. She let go – luckily she had not gripped too hard, else she would have likely crushed the boy's shoulder... he would probably gain some bruises from her fingers. Fortunately, the boy was too afraid to make an issue; he scurried away swiftly, leaving the Illyria standing there seemingly in a daze, her aspects spinning as they attempted to determine what had just happened.

"Illyria!" A harsh call, just short of a shout, gained her primary attention.

Over by the stairs to the lower level, Connor stood with two other humans; a handsome, brown-haired man and a blonde woman, both roughly equivalent in age to Angel's son. All three stared at Illyria as if she'd gone mad – and for a moment, she wondered if she had. She stood straight, meeting their gaze, attempting to recover what she had left of her dignity. Her strut as she walked over to them was worthy of her time as god-king.

"There you are. I was looking for you," she said as way of cover as she approached the group.

"We can see that. Connor's taller, though," the blonde joked lightly. She was pretty, long-haired and sweet-faced, and clutched a notebook to her patchwork skirt and blouse. An aspect of Illyria suggested choking her with her own femur. She dismissed the notion, reluctantly.

Beside the girl, the young man smiled tolerantly and placed a hand at the small of her back. Like Connor, he was dressed in plain jeans, with an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a gray t-shirt. His own red pack was slung over one shoulder, already heavy with books.

Attempting to divert their focus, she addressed Connor again. "I have selected the books I wish to borrow. We may leave now."

"Oh," Connor looked surprised. "Uh... good." He leaned in, ostensibly to view her choices. "What was that about?" he questioned, sotto voce, a scowl in his voice, though not on his face.

"Mistaken identity," Illyria hissed, leaving no room for further questioning.

Connor glanced up, realizing they were under increasingly bemused scrutiny by his friends. "Uh, guys, this is Illyria, a friend from... um... Canada. Illyria, this is Theresa and Marc, friends of mine from school."

Marc stuck out his hand toward her. Recognizing the custom, she was careful to hide her distaste as she shook it in greeting. When Theresa did the same, the demoness instead hid a smirk as she briefly squeezed the proffered hand hard enough to make the girl wince.

Illyria realized that she would be expected to make some inane human small-talk. "You are Connor's classmates at medical school?"

"Well, Theresa is," Marc replied pleasantly. "I'm in the Arts program... comparative religion."

"If you need help finding God, Marc's your man!" Theresa giggled.

"Really?" Illyria said. Beside her, Connor coughed. "I will keep that in mind."

"Illyria's actually staying at the Hyperion for the moment," Connor interjected. "She's sort of... watching the place until Angel gets back."

"Oh! So it's okay with you if we come over tomorrow?" Theresa asked.

"'Come over'?"

"For pizza and study!" Theresa pretended to scowl dramatically at Connor. "Connor! You didn't ask?"

"Pizza, _beer_, and study," Marc corrected. "Let's not forget the important part."

Connor sighed. "It's okay. Right, Illyria?" He looked at her meaningfully, trying to convey a message with his eyebrows.

Annoyed, Illyria was tempted to say no, since the boy had unwittingly given her the power to do so. But then she'd have to justify why to three whining young humans. She might have to kill them. Then borrowing her library books would be even more of an inconvenience. She sighed mentally.

"I see no reason why it would not be... okay," Illyria replied slowly. "I trust you do not mind if I... observe." She gained some mild satisfaction at seeing Connor wince at that proviso.

"No problem at all," Marc replied. He winked at her. "We'll save a slice for you."

"Very well."

"Rock. Alright, we'll see you both tomorrow afternoon. Later!" Marc placed his hand on Theresa's back and together they headed past the checkout counter, toward the stairs leading out of the building.

As the pair moved off, Illyria watched Theresa until she was out of view down the stairs, making note of the glances the young woman would toss over her shoulder toward Connor, the sway of her walk, the flux of heat through her body. Then she turned her attention to Connor himself, who appeared to be unnecessarily checking the few books he held..

"You lust after her," Illyria pronounced. Connor nearly dropped his pack. "And she for you. I do not approve."

"I don't need dating advice from the Jurassic era, thank you," he hissed quietly. "And what do you care, anyway?"

"She is vapid and annoying. Your children with her would not have your strength nor your intelligence. You would be better served finding a mate more worthy."

"You know, there are so many things wrong with that statement, but I'm having problems getting upset because I think there was a compliment buried somewhere in there." He quietly closed his book and shoved it back under his arm. "First off, kids? Way, way, _way_ down my list of priorities right now. Two: Theresa is a good person. Three: she and Marc are together. Four: again, why do you even care?"

Illyria frowned in annoyance. "I am concerned because I am concerned. It is an irritating tendency which I appear to have inherited from this vessel. Both Angel and Wesley placed great concern in your welfare. In their absence, I feel it... necessary... to act on their behalf."

Connor appeared surprised by her candor. After a moment he quirked a smile and an eyebrow at her. "Careful. You have a reputation as a megalomaniac to maintain."

She merely glared at him. Connor repressed a laugh as he picked up his book selections and led her over to the checkout desk, where a heavy, unsmiling woman who reeked strongly of cigarette smoke began scanning bar codes off the inside of each cover. Connor took the short stack of books Illyria had gathered and laid them out with his own, reading the titles as he did so.

"Why am I not shocked by these?" He commented wryly. "_The Art of Political Warfare_?" He looked over a book nearly three fingers thick, with a title that would take two breaths to speak aloud, which concentrated on the Second World War. "You don't go for the light stuff, do you?" His brow rose as he saw the final title, "_Hilbert Operations in Quantum Physics_?" He looked at her with surprise.

Illyria met the gaze uncomfortably. In truth, she didn't know why she had selected that particular title, other than it had interested her. Fortunately, Connor did not ask, instead adding the book with the rest when he realized the librarian was glaring at him through her small spectacles.

In short order, Connor had the books checked out and placed in his backpack. The books were heavy, but he slung the pack over one shoulder easily. Together, they left the library and began to walk to the Hyperion.

It was late; the sun was beginning to set. As they traveled, the demoness noted how some humans became more hurried, more desperate to finish their tasks and get home before true nightfall arrived.

On the way, Connor, professing hunger, making a stop at a hotdog stand. After refusing Connor's offer to try one, she watched patiently as he slathered his own meal in a variety of colourful sauces and pungent-smelling vegetables. The vendor, a portly dark-skinned man wearing an apron smeared with fresh stains, continued to throw pleasant, nearsighted smiles Illyria's way despite her utter lack of reaction. Here was one human who did not appear to have altered his life drastically in reaction to the discovery of the world's previously unnoticed inhabitants. She wondered what made him different – and how he would react if she changed to her true appearance in front of him.

There were no unoccupied benches nearby, so Connor gestured her toward a large planter nearby. It was pair of a matched pair which stretched out decoratively in front of a tall office building, its waist-high jade marble walls jutting out of the sterile concrete. The planter was filled with dark earth and tall, green plants, a pleasant distraction for Illyria from the harsh steel of the city, the cloying scents of car exhaust, and the steam from the hotdog cart. Connor dropped his pack casually next to the wall and hopped up to sit as he ate.

Illyria examined the plants while Connor ate his meal; the silence was almost companionable.

"I do not understand your behavior," she commented suddenly.

"How do you mean?" Connor replied between bites.

She fixed her gaze on the young man. "I have not hidden what I am from you. I have stated that I took this shell from Winifred Burkle. That I once wished to wage war upon your species. I have even admitted to you that in one time-thread I killed Angel. Yet you visit me. You bring me here, amongst the other humans, even introducing me to your friends. You have shown concern for me. Why?"

Connor finished his hotdog, chewing while he considered his answer. "You're all I have left of them."

"'Them'?"

"Dad and his team. The Angel Investigations family. Whatever. Family means a lot to me."

"So it is because I look like _her_." A bitter flavour crept unnoticed into her words.

"No, not really. Both my father and Wesley trusted you enough to include you in the team. Wesley took care of you before, didn't he?"

"Wesley did not do any of these things for me. He considered me a barely-contained threat. He agreed to guide me only because I wore the body of his dead lover. The majority of the time he could only tolerate my presence when fortified by toxic amounts of whiskey."

"Well, so far you haven't been a threat to me, and you certainly don't look like my ex-girlfriend. And I don't drink. Are you confused because I'm actually nice to you when I don't have to be?"

She paused. "Yes."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Together, they watched the people hurry by on the sidewalk; people in business suits, others in casual clothes; a beggar. The twilight waned; the air began to turn cool. The hotdog vendor began to pack up his cart, pouring the steaming water into the street where it could flow into the sewer, filling the air with the scent of boiled meat.

"It taints your memory of him, doesn't it?" Connor asked quietly.

"My memory is immutable. What do you mean?"

"Wesley was your connection to this world. You relied on him. And he was spinning toward despair and self-destruction. Everything you experienced with him was coloured by that. Now you're experiencing human life without that kind of misery hanging over you." Connor looked down as he wiped his hands on a napkin. "It's too bad you guys didn't have more time; too bad he didn't give you more of a chance."

"Wesley was an excellent guide, he served me well," she stated, rather more hotly than she intended.

"I'm sure of it. I didn't actually know him all that well – in any set of memories, really – but he came off as smart and tough. But he had problems, I know that."

Illyria's eyes scanned the sidewalk and the people it still contained, not looking up at Connor. She could not deny Connor's words, though for some reason she wished to. She heard him take a breath to say more, but she interrupted him. "I do not wish to continue this discussion. We should return to the Hyperion."

Connor nodded sadly, though she wasn't watching to see. He hopped down to the ground, and gathered up the backpack. Together, the two walked the rest of the distance to the Hyperion in silence. Both beings were more than capable of dealing with any threats which roamed the streets of L.A. - human or otherwise – so they traveled the streets without fear. Soon, they were walking through the courtyard to the hotel.

Not a word was exchanged between them during the entire trip, nor as Connor unlocked and entered the building, turning on the lights and going to the reception desk to unload Illyria's books. Illyria followed behind, reverting to her natural appearance the moment she entered the hotel.

Inside, her aspects spun and twisted as they had the entire trip home, warring until a majority emerged, a chorus of voices demanding the same thing. _Ask him_.

"He was very different that last day."

Connor looked up from where he was re-zipping his backpack. "What?"

She stood in the center of the room, staring at the couch. "After Angel laid out his plans, Wesley was different. He was... civil... to me. He did not indulge himself in a 'perfect day' as Angel had suggested, but neither did he engage in poisoning himself, and the stench of grief did not hang so strongly about him. He was... resolute. He told me he did not intend to die, but..." She stopped, unable to explain her thoughts.

She rounded suddenly on Connor, voice sharp. "You are human... explain this to me. Do you gain such strength from the specter of risking death, or _seeking_ death? Did Wesley seek to destroy the sorcerer that day, or himself, merely to escape the sight of me?"

Connor hesitated, speechless, shocked by the demoness' departure from her normal cold detachment. "I don't know, Illyria. I don't think anybody can know what was going on in his head." Connor gestured helplessly. He finished with his pack, placing it on the desk, not meeting her gaze. "But... Wes was a survivor. And I don't think he was a liar, either. Did he ever lie to you?"

Another pause. "No. He did not attempt to deceive me, even when he knew I would be angered." Illyria remembered Wesley's defiance, and found the memories oddly pleasing. "He did not fear me at all."

Connor smiled at her. "Well, there's your answer."


	5. Trapped

The "study" visit with Marc and Theresa was, to Connor's relief, rather relaxed and uneventful. Illyria managed an admirable job restraining herself from any overly unusual comments, and not blatantly declaring her dislike for Theresa – at least as far as anyone could tell. The demoness possessed considerable skill in couching a phrase in complex language and metaphor, enough that the three youngsters could barely follow what was being said.

While the human youngsters studied, Illyria played her own little game – testing the bounds of what she had learned, exploring her own capacity to integrate with humans without falling back onto the Burkle persona. She refused their offer of pizza and beer, but managed to do so reasonably politely. She could not "chat", but managed to pose the odd relevant question and imitate interest in the answers. She was also constantly present, quiet but seen; when Marc would leave the room briefly to take care of his bodily needs, she insured that the disloyal little female would not attempt to work her charms upon Connor.

It proved to be easier than Illyria expected. No doubt the two unwitting humans considered her odd, a strangely quiet and cold person, but they did not examine her overmuch, and she considered the social experiment a success. By the time the pizza boxes and beer bottles were empty, and the sun was beginning to dim though the hotel's windows, both Theresa and Marc were not paying undue attention to her.

The four had settled on the Hyperion's dining room for their study session. They arranged themselves around the head of the large table, with Marc and Theresa on one side, and Connor and Illyria on the other. Theresa and Connor worked together reviewing a paper on some subject which did not interest Illyria, while Marc was munching on a pizza crust and getting greasy fingerprints on the pages of a book he held. It did not escape her notice that this get-together was more social than practical, since there was very little overlap in their fields of study.

Theresa looked up from the text she and Connor had been reviewing together, and noticed the light of the dipping sun. Connor had opened the heavy drapes, which blocked the window for years, and bright sunlight had flooded the room during most of the afternoon. The sun was low in the sky now, and the sunlight trimmed the dark wood of the table in gold and turned the red carpet to copper.

Theresa's eyes widened as she glanced at her watch. "Oh! It's getting late! We'd better get home, Marc."

"Are you sure?" Connor asked, surprised, as she stood. "It's only seven..."

"Yeah, I just don't feel safe walking to the car after dark."

"This isn't that bad a neighbourhood, Tess."

"I know, I'm just worried ever since these monsters started popping up all over the place." Beside her, Marc sighed as he packed up his books.

Connor shrugged, obviously disappointed. He stood to guide them to the main doors, and since Illyria was supposedly caretaker for the hotel in Angel's "absence", she did so as well. She waited patiently while Connor helped the other two gather their notes and texts and pack them away into Marc's knapsack.

"Man, that pizza didn't fill the hole at all," Marc complained as he slung his pack over his shoulder, pushing the chair he used back properly against the table.

"We can grab a snack on the way home. Honestly, I don't know how you eat like you do."

"You know what I want right now? Ice cream." Marc smiled at Theresa. "You want some ice cream?"

The blonde grinned back at Marc. "I like-"

-_ice cream._ Welling up from nowhere, memories rushed through Illyria. Not a gentle spark, but a ravenous, rampaging storm which smashed its way though the demoness' mind.

Feeling and flavour: a treat, soft and cold, sweet upon her tongue; the half-breed Angel beside her, inspiring feelings of warmth and near-worship; a journey through the city sewers, a place so dark and confining it should have given Illyria fits, but instead made her feel safe and protected. It was warm and pleasant, and completely, terrifyingly alien. The demoness staggered, nearly tipping into Connor.

"Whoa!" He took her shoulders and steadied her. "Are you okay?"

For a brief moment, the she didn't know the answer. All of her aspects were aghast – stunned, trying to figure out where she was, or figuring out what had just happened. She blinked up at the young man for a second.

Then she realized the other two were watching her as well. Disguised or not, she would not seem weak in front of them. "I am fine... I was just unbalanced for a moment."

"Probably low blood sugar," Theresa commented, "You should've had some some pizza."

Illyria came very close to hissing at the irritating girl. Instead, she fixed her with as hostile a glare as all her experience made her capable of generating... which was considerable. She gained some mild satisfaction seeing the blonde pale a bit.

"You can stay here and sit, Illyria," Connor assured. "I can show them out."

Now she was being coddled. It was so much less gratifying when done out of pity instead of fear. But she couldn't object without risking her disguise. Reluctantly, she seated herself in her chair. "Very well."

Connor nodded and led the other two out of the dining room and to the hotel's front door. Illyria's extended senses could hear them exchanging pleasantries and farewells, and the click of the front door closing.

Only one aspect was paying attention to that, however; the rest were delving deep within herself, attempting to determine what had happened. The similar incidents before she had dismissed as being caused by injury and exhaustion. Not so with this case – she was at the peak of her current strength, and this experience had been much stronger than the others.

Yet all her aspects replied back with the same answer: nothing was wrong. She could find no traces of sorcery. Her physical being, the shell, was in proper working order, no damage or chemical influence apparent.

Within the vast storehouse of her mind, she found the memory which had assaulted her. It sat, quiescent, neatly arranged among the rank and file of the rest. It was integrated, woven into the fabric of her experiences as if it had always been there; only by its "colour" could she tell that it had originally belonged to the shell. She could touch it, taste it, as easily as any of her memories from before her resurrection. It was part of her.

It worried her greatly.

Before she could delve further, she sensed Connor's approach, drawing her primary attention. She watched, expressionless, as the young man walked into the room. He watched her carefully, leaning on the door frame, his hands in his jean pockets. The descending sun cast its rays almost directly upon him, giving his skin a golden cast.

Connor looked at her carefully, concerned. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I said I'm fine." Illyria's voice. Illyria's words. But the phrase came out coloured with a slight Texas accent. The hair on her neck would have stood on end, if her vessel was prone to such reactions.

Connor looked confused, as if he wasn't sure what he had just heard.

"I said, I am fine," she repeated, this time slowly, with absolute control. To her relief the words were spoken in her normal clipped, precise tones. "Your concern is unnecessary. I tire of repeating myself."

He shrugged in response. "I just worry about you, that's all. You're my friend." He walked over and began gathering up his papers.

As he did so, Illyria rolled the word around in her mind. _Friend_. It was not a word that had been applied to her before in her long existence, and she'd had many titles. It was demeaning, to assume she would have kinship with these... primates. Yet, she was not angry as she should be.

Internally, she gave the equivalent of a sigh. She had too much she needed to consider. "I wish to meditate in my room. I will be there if you require me." She stood and marched out of the room, strides steady, mind in turmoil.

--------

For three days, Illyria meditated at nearly every opportunity. She did not do so while Connor was about, since she had no care to explain her actions to him, and perhaps generate more worry on his part. But the times she would normally spend reading were instead spent in her room, the books neglected on the low dresser while she stood in the center of the room, focus turned inward.

Inside, she was following the threads of her own memory. It was a large task, akin to mapping a continent, even with multiple aspects working on the task. Yet she had already found more occurrences of memories not her own blending in with those that were, docile fragments of experience which had not caused as much disruption as the others.

It unnerved her each time, as she took hold of each memory and experienced it, for the first time – and yet not. Some were innocuous – the gritty feel of sand while playing in a sandbox, the explosion of heat and flavour from a well-prepared taco. Others were powerful: the heartbreak as the boy who gave her her first kiss crowed about "scoring the nerd girl"; the elation as she found out her father was alive and unhurt after an explosion tore through the factory where he worked; the terror and resignation as green-skinned monsters laid her neck upon a block, a handsome man standing over her with an axe.

Those memories were bloated with meaning. At her slightest touch, they spewed sensation and putrid emotion across her mind. It did not matter that they had occurred to a different person, their weave into the tapestry of her experiences was so seamless she could not tell where she left off and the shell began.

It worried her, and it was not in her nature to worry. She destroyed threats, it was that simple. Yet, there was no threat she could attack here, no one to blame. The last time she had been faced with such untraceable influence, her ruin had come from within. She did not like the idea that she was facing a similar situation.

And yet, there was the girl. The phantom child, who was there and then not. It was seeming increasingly likely that the two were connected. Illyria would be wary; when the girl appeared again she would be ready. The demon queen would have answers.

On the afternoon of the third day she was still in her room, carefully combing through her inner self, when her primary attention was drawn back to the world around her. A shout; someone was calling from the hotel lobby.

Standing, she left her room and strode down the hallway, her appearance smoothly and effortlessly shifting to human as she walked. As she approached the balcony which overlooked the lobby, she heard the shout again, and recognized the voice.

"Connor!" Theresa shouted from the center of the lobby.

"Connor is not here." Theresa spun about to look up at Illyria where she stood upon the balcony. "I do not expect him for another hour."

Illyria examined the young woman as she descended the stairs. The girl's face was wet with tears, and she wrung her hands fitfully, her weight shifting from foot to foot. The demoness wondered what had upset her, and how it would concern Connor.

"I need to talk to him, do you know where he is?"

"He mentioned that he had an appointment at the hospital. I believe it concerned his residency application." She attempted to keep her voice level, without visibly showing her irritation.

"I need to talk to him! Marc's in trouble!"

Illyria cocked her head. "Trouble? Of what form?"

"He asked me to drive him to this weird shop – I don't know what he was doing there. I... I was waiting out in the car when I saw these monsters come rushing in. They had guns! I called the police but now the monsters are holed up and they're keeping everyone inside..." The blonde burst into tears again. "They're not making any demands or anything! The cops say that the place is owned by freaks, and the hostages are freaks, too... but they wouldn't listen to me when I tried to tell them about Marc!"

The demoness was intrigued despite herself. "You feel he is in particular danger?"

"Of course he is!" Theresa responded angrily through her tears. "He's trapped in there, surrounded by freaks! If they want to kill each other, fine, but he's stuck in between! And the police... if the police go in, they'll have to shoot... and Marc will get hurt!"

Illyria regarded the human, surprised that one so annoyingly docile and insipid could generate such emotion and blood thirst. "And what would you expect of Connor?"

Theresa paused, taken aback. "I... I don't know. He could help me convince the police that Marc is in there, and that they need to be careful..."

"Where is this shop?"

"It's... um... about eight blocks south and six east. It's easy to find with the fuss. Why?"

The disguised demon was already walking toward the door. "I will be there."

"Wait! I'll come with you!"

"No," Illyria turned as she reached the door, and her voice carried absolute authority. "You will stay here. When Connor arrives, you will advise him where I have gone. Then you may follow."

Theresa gaped, eyes wide, but did not argue. Ignoring her, Illyria walked quickly out into the daylight and through the hotel entrance.

--------

Though she did not run, the demoness' swift, tireless stride ate up the distance quickly. As Theresa had said, the location was easy to find; up the street from the shop, police vehicles were arranged to close off the street to traffic. Humans, normally indifferent to normal crime, crowded as closely as the guarding officers would permit them, standing on their toes to try to catch a glimpse of the demons which had invaded the shop.

Even from the edge of the block, Illyria's sharp eyes could see the front of the store, and the array of police vehicles arranged in a crescent in front of it. Uniformed humans stood behind the cars, weapons holstered, but she could tell from their movements that the officers were on edge.

Obviously she would be unable to walk up to the front door. However, it seemed likely that there would be less linear means of getting access to the building. Passing out of the crowd, she quickly walked toward the entrance to a narrow alley which she hoped would lead behind the row of buildings.

As she reached the alley, a hand suddenly grabbed her elbow, and she spun about. It was Connor; Illyria relaxed her fists, which had clenched at the touch, ready to strike.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

"Theresa came to the Hyperion, and informed me that Marc was within the shop when it was taken," she replied. "Did you speak to her?"

Connor's mouth set into a grim line. "No, I heard it on the scanner at the hospital. I recognized the shop, Marc's been here before."

"What do you intend to do?"

"I don't know. The cops are itchy... they think the place is only filled with demons, and they're not too inclined to be friendly with them. It's also weird that the hostage-takers haven't made any demands. This wasn't a robbery – they stuck around for the police to show up."

"Then they seek a confrontation."

"It looks like it. I dunno if they're suicidal or if they just want to kill some cops, but the people inside are going to get caught in the crossfire."

Illyria considered carefully. "That, too, may be what they wish."

Angel's son paled, as though he hadn't thought of that. "Yeah, maybe."

She looked back at the shop. "The attackers will provide little challenge to me. I will strike them down, and then remove Marc without alerting the human police."

"Wait, wait! You can't kill them!"

Her look was as close to incredulous as she was capable.

"If you kill them, the cops will come in, find a pile of dead bodies, and they won't know what's going on. At best they'll think they have a vigilante on their hands... at worst they might think the others in the shop killed them."

"And this is a concern, because...?"

"Because we don't know what it'll touch off. The humans are edgy, the demon community – even the moderates – are nervous. Tensions are building, and the cops walking in on a massacre might be enough to ignite more violence."

"If what you describe is true, then a confrontation is already inevitable," she argued. "Mercy is a fallacy, a weakness to be exploited. The mere scent of it will inflame your enemies to bolder acts." Illyria sneered. "You seek to hold back the tide."

"Maybe so," was his heated reply. "But I'll keep my finger in the dike as long as I can." The ancient one's face turned quizzical, and she opened her mouth to question. Connor sighed. "It's another word for dam."

He took a breath, and spoke again in more measured tones. "Look... Illyria, I'm really glad you want to help. I know you've got the power, you've got nothing to prove. But if you kill them, things are going to spiral out of control. Maybe you're right, and it's going to happen eventually anyway, but I'd rather it not be on account of us. So I'm asking you... please... don't kill them."

The demoness stared at him, scowling, and for a moment Connor feared she couldn't be convinced. "Very well," she said, finally. "For you, I will acquiesce. But I believe you are making a mistake." She turned and strode confidently away. "Attempt to delay the human police," she commanded without turning around.

Connor sighed, and turned to leave the alley, jogging toward the array of police cars.

--------

Sergeant Jacob Landon was not having a particularly stellar day.

Landon hated standoffs; he especially hated standoffs that involved his SWAT team, because as far as he was concerned, SWAT was supposed to _resolve_ standoffs. Standing outside a magic shop of all places, trying to starve out a batch of freaks who saw fit to take the place over, was something any batch of uniforms could have done.

But no; because the situation involved freaks at all, the chief wanted SWAT on the job. The city was nervous, and that made the Mayor nervous; and he, in turn, made very sure the chief was nervous. And as a final result of that delegation of jitters, Landon and his team were standing in the middle of street, sweating in their kit in the late afternoon sun.

At least it didn't seem to bother Lopez too much. The short, stocky Latino man sat comfortably on the rear bumper of one of the assault trucks, rock and roll blasting in one ear while the other was occupied with the team's comm radio. Despite all the heavy equipment the man kept at hand for when the action came up, he basked in the sun as if he was on vacation.

In contrast, it was only the standard black SWAT ball cap which kept the sun from scorching the top of Landon's head through the short, pale hair of his brush cut. He didn't imagine Henderson was having too much fun, either; the tall redhead was even more fair-skinned than he.

Such was the life for the SWAT since the unimaginable events of the previous month.

Landon had fought monsters before. Serial rapists, drug lords, wannabe-terrorists; he'd had a crack at all of them, and usually came out on top. But they were all human; low-grade human, sure, but human. Never could he have expected that on one rainy night he'd be sending his team in against the real thing. Things that had never had any claim on being people. Monsters that ate bullets and kept coming with claws and fangs.

He'd lost three people that night. It'd been worse among the regular uniforms. Sure, they'd given the forces of Hell a good bloody nose – claws or not, there was only so much a given freak could do against a spray of 5.56 mm rounds – but it didn't change the fact that over a dozen lockers had been emptied out at the precinct, while the things that had killed his mates had rotted and dissolved away, disappearing as if it had all been a delusion – like none of it had mattered.

Landon was going to make sure it mattered. He was damned sure of that. That's why he was out here in the heat, signing up for melanoma, camping out in front of a store that had been taken over by freaks.

He was about to ask where Henderson was, since she was supposed to be talking to the power company about cutting off the electricity to the building, when some shouts from the direction of the north cordon caught his attention. A young man, almost a kid, had slipped by the watching uniforms and was approaching the SWAT setup, an officer running up behind him. The kid was fast, though, and he managed to get to them before the officer got to him. He slowed from his fast walk, hands held up to indicate no threat. His hair was shaggy, and he was dressed very casual, with college student written all over him. He was over a head shorter than the sergeant, and certainly didn't look dangerous, but Landon had learned not to take anything for granted.

Lopez had stopped humming and was sitting alert now, his M-16 ready in his hands, though not aimed. Landon waved him down, and he returned the rifle to its resting position, but he didn't relax. Seeing this, the kid homed in on him as the guy in charge.

"I need to talk to you!" The pursuing officer had caught up and grabbed the kid by his loose jacket, but the boy set his feet and refused to move.

"What the hell are you doing here? Get back behind the cordon," Landon barked.

"I'm Connor Reilly. My friend, Marc Lancaster, is in there. He's one of the hostages."

Landon frowned. He hadn't heard anything about humans being hostage. "What? A human?"

Stern spoke up from behind Landon. "What? No way, sarge. This is a freak den, there ain't nobody human in there."

The kid frowned at the mustached SWAT officer. "I'm telling you he is!" He focused on Landon. "I know you think the place is just packed full of demons, and none of them matter, but he's in there, and he's a good guy, and he'll get caught in between if you go in there with guns blasting."

'Demons'. An interesting way of putting it, though accurate. "Are you sure?"

Stern seemed surprised that the question was even asked. "What! Sarge, there's nobody in there. We've put cameras on the windows... they're freaks, all of them!"

"He might be hiding," Connor protested. "But I know he's in there... his girlfriend dropped him off, she watched him go in! I'm not bullshitting you, sir, this is real."

The headache which Landon felt gearing up in the back of his head was weapon-prepped and ready to move, which was more than he could say for his team. He rubbed one temple. "Okay. Believe it or not, kid, we _are_ trying to follow procedure here, and that includes trying to negotiate. But they don't seem to _want_ to talk. They've been holed up in there for a couple of hours now, and they haven't made a peep. The phone is being ignored. We don't know what they went in there after."

Stern rounded on Connor accusingly. "And what was your 'friend' doing in there in the first place, huh? Just hanging out? You and your boys like hangin' with the freaks, huh?"

Connor's temper flared, and he came dangerously close to decking the man, but Landon intervened. "Stern! Shut it! Go check with the city planner about the sewer entrances, damnit."

Stern continued to look daggers at Connor, but left to obey orders. Landon fixed his gaze on Angel's son. "As for you... we're cops, we know our jobs. I can't promise anything, but we're looking for a peaceful solution to all this."

"Apparently not all of you are."

Landon's tone let the young man know he was treading on dangerous ground. "He's not in charge, I am, and he'll do what he's told. And so will you – I'm telling you to get back on the other side of the line!"

Realizing that protesting further would only get him arrested, Connor ground his teeth, firing one last glare at the sergeant and letting the LAPD officer escort him back to the guard line. Landon watched the kid, scowling, until he was on the other side of the gawkers at the end of the block.

Annoyed, Landon rubbed the bridge of his nose. This whole situation was giving him a headache. From where he stood, he glared over the squad car he stood in front of, at the dark, frustratingly silent magic shop.


	6. Deliverance

While Sergeant Landon was glaring at the front of the building, Illyria was sliding silently down yet another alley toward the side. She'd come close, but each time she neared the store she found the way blocked by at least one vigilant human in uniform. There was no doubt she could knock the officer out, but she had no illusions of how Connor would react, and it was likely that the humans were periodically checking with each other anyway.

So, now, she was trying yet another possible means of gaining access. She'd discarded the sewers as a possibility; it was likely guarded as well, even if she was willing to enter the dark, cramped confines of the waste system. Instead, she was looking at the exact opposite: entering from above.

The store was located next to a small brick building, most likely an apartment. This building was the same size, and was accessible covertly by the same alleys which led to the store. The humans, in order to avoid spreading their resources too thin, were keeping close to the store; the neighbouring buildings, while technically still within the cordon, were under less scrutiny. She was able to approach down the open alley, ducking behind dumpsters and other obstacles whenever she sensed another presence.

She was considering breaking into the apartment when she experienced some good fortune: within the small alley on the opposite site from the store, the apartments were equipped with a steel fire escape which she could see extended to the top of the three storey building. Quickly, she strode down the unoccupied space between the buildings, until she stood just below the metal structure. Made of durable welded steel, it had a sliding ladder which could only be lowered from above, in order to keep out intruders.

Human intruders, that is. The railing around the lowest platform was a good two metres above her head – easily within reach. A burst from her powerful legs and she vaulted over the lowest railing, landing on the metal grating with a clunk. The entire structure reverberated very slightly.

She shifted to her blue form even as she scaled the steps, ignoring the various open and closed windows she passed on the way to the roof. Eventually she reached the short steel ladder which gave access to the top of the building, and she quickly stepped up it, wasting no time, hopping over onto the flat, gravelled rooftop.

The tiny stones crunched under her feet as she moved to the other side of the building. Carefully, she peeked over the edge into the alley. As she had expected, there were yet more police officers covering the rear of the occupied building, but their attention was directed toward the door on the ground level, not on possible routes above. It was careless of them, but it worked to her advantage. Neither of the two humans noticed her shadow flit across as she leaped to the other building.

Keeping her profile low, she slid toward the small shed-like construction which led to the stairs into the building. The tarred surface rippled the air from the heat, and her boots stuck slightly as she made her way to the door, leaving slight boot-prints into the softened substance. She paused, reaching out with her senses. She could detect no one on the other side, and none on the floor immediately below her. Judging it safe, she opened the gray steel door – barely noting that it had been locked.

Slowly, she descended the narrow flight of wooden stairs. The stairway was very narrow and only received light from the area below and the open door above. Illyria's breathing sped up despite herself, and only the promise of impending combat kept her attention focused. She forced herself to take each step slowly, one at a time, and it was with great relief that she emerged into the open area of the third floor.

It was obviously a bedroom; a wide, plain bed held one side, and a dresser and bookshelf occupied opposite walls. A door on the wall to her right led to a small bathroom. The space was well-lit, both by a large floor lamp and a smaller lamp on a night table next to the bed, but the blue-painted walls and the dark carpet seemed to consume all of the light. Heavy curtains over all the windows held the room away from the sun.

Seeing that the room was unoccupied, Illyria continued on to the larger set of stairs directly ahead. From the first few steps she could hear the sounds of activity below. Footsteps; the tap of metal; a hollow thunking. Hugging the wall, the demoness moved down the first set of steps to the landing. She peeked around the corner and, seeing no one within her line of sight, descended the last few stairs to the floor.

It was a small kitchen, she noted; a spartan table with a few chairs was arranged in the center of the room, and the walls were lined with cupboards painted a light green. Hunched over the enameled metal countertop was a large man – one of the hostage takers, judging from the rifle he had slung over one shoulder. Illyria could smell bread and peanut butter, reminding her of the meager meals Wesley would make for himself, more to silence his stomach than for any kind of sustenance.

Knees slightly bent, Illyria stalked up behind the man, her deceptively strong hands poised to remove him. She rolled across the stained linoleum floor like water, soundless; and when he suddenly turned around to face her just a metre away, sandwich in hand, it was to their mutual surprise.

Aesthetics were largely irrelevant to the once god-king, but even she was able to recognize that these beings would not be participating in any beauty contests. Though superficially similar to humans, their skin was deep red, like human flesh after too long in the sun. They were bald, their yellowed eyes set deep into the face, and instead of a nose they possessed two breathing slits, giving the face the look of a mutilated skull. He towered over her, thick-bodied and barrel-chested, clad in a khaki shirt and camouflage cargo pants. A similar khaki ball cap was worn backwards atop his head. His weapon, a long-barreled rifle, hung loose over his shoulder, and one hand held it in place while the other was half-way to raising his sandwich to his mouth.

The demon's eyes went wide, and his mouth opened to give alarm. Quick as thought, Illyria seized the front of his shirt with one hand and brutally struck him in the face with the other. He reeled and tried to grasp his weapon; without letting go, she batted it aside and hit him again. Once; twice; three times, like a battering ram, until his eyes rolled back, and the only thing keeping him upright was her grip on his shirt. Softly, she lowered him to the floor, next to the remains of his peanut butter sandwich.

The rest of the floor was clear, so she moved back to the final flight of stairs. Here, the air carried the scents of anger and fear, and she could hear the faint sounds of worried speech. She entered a tiny office; a pair of desks filled the room, and a computer hummed in the corner. She padded past it, toward the door which finally led into the front area of the shop.

The door was open, so the demoness peeked about the corner, noting the layout of the front area. She couldn't see much; the area was dim, due to the blinds being shut against outside observation. The store also had a protective metal cage around the front windows, to help deter crime, but it was proving to be equally effective in keeping out law enforcement. She could see the rear side of a counter, which likely stretched across the room; the open space between it and the front of the store was dotted with small tables, containing various knickknacks. The wall closest to her was lined with shelving, stacked with books, pungent-smelling herbs, and small items, a few of which possessed very faint magical energies which possibly only she could detect.

She could not see any of the hostages or their keepers within her limited field of vision, though her other senses told her they were present within the room. Attempting to see more, she advanced a tiny amount further into the room.

"I wouldn't move, if I were you."

The ancient one cursed mentally; spotted! How, she did not know – perhaps these demons had extraordinary senses, some nonverbal connection to their incapacitated comrade, or some other form of safeguard. Regardless, she was caught.

Illyria considered. Perhaps it was time to switch from guile to audacity. It was more her style, anyway.

She stood and took an unhurried step into the room, standing in plain view in front of a small shelf, her arms at her sides. In front of her, behind the display counter, one demon stood poised just a few arm lengths away, a shotgun raised and aimed at her face. To her left, on the other side of the counter in front of the cash register, another demon stood over the hostages, a large black pistol held in his hand.

The hostages, six in all, were kept in a group, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the second demon. One pair of similar species held each other; none were human. Confused, Illyria scanned the small group for Marc, finally spotting him as the entire group turned to stare at her.

It was Marc, but he was different. He still wore his casual student clothing, and his hair and goatee were unchanged – but his skin, instead of its normal healthy pinkish hue, was slate gray. As he turned to gape at her, she could tell that his eyes were changed from their normal hazel to amber, visible even in the dim, shadowy lighting of the shop.

His eyes went wide as he recognized her. "Illyria!" he gasped. Beside him, a blackish-green demon wearing small spectacles jerked his head in surprise.

The demon in front of her raised one hairless eyebrow. "So you're the rescue team, eh? The cops tell you to do this? They too gutless to come in themselves?"

The demoness glared at the apparent leader of the group. "No mortal commands me. I'm here because I wish it."

"Ah, so you're just a... good citizen. It was a nice try," the leader scowled, and gestured toward the group of hostages, "now sit down with them."

"No."

"What? Sit down!"

"Do you believe you have anyone fooled, filth?" There was a collective gasp from the hostages, sure that the gang leader would gun Illyria down on the spot. But he merely snarled as she continued to speak. "You have no intention of letting any of them go. You're using them as bait."

"Good call."

"You will accomplish little. I have witnessed these humans in combat – they are disciplined and efficient. They will cut you down like wheat before the scythe."

"That's right. As soon as their patience breaks, they'll come storming in here, and they'll kill all of us." He gestured expansively with the hand that wasn't holding his weapon, indicating everyone in the room. "_All_ of us. If your nose isn't in the right place or your skin isn't the right colour, you're going to eat a bullet. That includes _you_, blue girl."

She cocked her head, considering. "You wish them to murder your hostages for you. You wish to die."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, we'll fight back, and it'll be a lot of fun. But that isn't the point. The point is to wake people up. It'll piss off all the idiots like _these -_" he jerked his head toward the hostages, "- who think we're supposed to get along! Enough of this 'co-existence' bullshit! It's time for demons to stop skulking around in the dark, hiding from the humans. They took this world from us. It's time we took it back!"

Illyria was completely unconvinced – and for a brief moment, that in itself surprised her. Wasn't this what she wanted when she returned to her temple, seeking to raise her followers? To sweep the humans aside, to return this planet to its rightful ruler? Shouldn't she be agreeing with this pathetic leader of rabble, allowing him to execute his foolish plan? Where was her ambition? Her desire to rule, to bring the world to heel?

"No," she replied. "You will fail. You seek to ignite a war you cannot win. The humans are plentiful and cunning... g_ods_ have fallen before them. They will brush you aside, crush you, grind you to dust, and in the end, they will have barely noticed your nettling presence."

The leader growled, tightening his grip on the shotgun. "Oh, I think I'll do a lot more than 'nettle'. I'm going to give the humans a message, and it's going to be a noticeable one."

Illyria's voice was arctic wind. "A message? Your _message_ is but scratches in the sand – doomed to be swept away by an uncaring sea."

The demon leader blinked, confused. Then his face twisted in contempt. "Very pretty. Did you come here to spout poetry?"

"No," the demon queen replied quietly, menacingly. "I came to send a _message_."

Then the blue demoness exploded into action, reaching behind her without looking. When her hand came forward again, it was holding the ceremonial dagger which had rested on the shelf behind her. Instantly, the hand-length blade was flung through the air toward the far demon, burying itself into the forearm which held his gun, pinning it against the register counter and away from where he could aim at the hostages on the floor. The demon screamed, dropping his weapon.

She dived around the counter even as a cloud of pellets disintegrated the shelf into a cloud of glass and wood. Some of the hostages screeched in fright; all dropped to lay flat upon the floor. Rolling, Illyria kept behind the cover of the counter as she heard the leader snarl in anger and re-pump his shotgun. In front of her, she could see the other thug trying to free his arm; but the dagger was embedded quite deeply into the wood of the counter, and each tug tore his flesh further, making him gasp in pain.

"Little blue bitch!"

A mistake. Homing in on the voice, she jumped to her feet, coming face to face with the gang's leader over the glass of the counter. The shotgun swung toward her face, but she seized it with one hand, pushing it up and away. The weapon thundered, blasting into the soft tile of the ceiling. Bits of graphite sprayed, showering her and the hostages, and the barrel superheated in her hand, burning her flesh. Yanking, she pulled the demon against the counter, where her other fist hammered into his face, sending him sprawling back against the rear wall.

At the other end of the counter, another red demon rounded through the door. He stared in shock for a moment at his pinned comrade and stunned leader, then began to raise his pistol toward Illyria. She twisted and swung, sending the shotgun she'd taken spinning toward him. The heavy weapon smashed into his face, shattering, sending him flying back through the doorway he'd come from.

The pinned demon had given up attempting to dislodge the dagger, and instead began fishing for his gun with his free hand. Marc, seeing this, lurched forward from his prone position and slapped it away. For his trouble the young man was struck hard across the face, sending him back down against the floor, bloodied.

His action succeeded in encouraging the other hostages, however. Surging up, they pounced on their captor, kicking and pummeling him as he stood trapped against the register.

"Do not kill him!" Illyria commanded as she leaped across the counter. Her boot came crashing down across the leader's head as she landed, removing his last traces of consciousness.

In front of her the final demon staggered back in from the hallway. Black ichor dripped down from his forehead across one eye from where the flung shotgun had hit him. He shouted with rage and fired his weapon at the fallen goddess's slender figure, but the shot missed by inches, shattering the display case behind her. He aimed again, but she was charging, sweeping up within his range, grabbing hold of the gun and the hand that held it and smashing it against the door frame. Bone crumbled as easily as the display case, and the demon screamed in agony.

--------

Outside, the sound of gunfire immediately sent the assembled police force scrambling into action. Landon, waiting for this moment, immediately began harshly stating orders, his throat microphone easily picking up his voice and transmitting it to the others. "Lopez, Martin, Stern! You cover the front. Henderson, with me, we take the back! We go in on my mark. Go!"

Henderson fell in beside him, and the two ran down the narrow alley toward the rear of the building, past the two cops who covered the back. They jumped over the waist-height chained-link fence which penned in a small graveled area behind the shop. The tiny yard was largely filled with trash, but contained a wooden door which led into the rear of the shop.

Both officers darted forward, taking up position on either side of the door. Landon brought his pistol up to ready, and made eye contact with Henderson. She nodded silently, shotgun ready. Behind them on the other side of the door, crashes and thumps could be heard.

"All right, team," he whispered into his microphone, "we go in in three... two... one..."

Landon swung about and raised one foot to kick in the door. He never got a chance to complete the action, as just then the door exploded outward in fragments. Landon's body armour sheltered him from the sharper pieces, and his raised arms covered his face. The large, black bulk which had smashed through the door struck him full in the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs and carrying him to the gravel-covered ground.

Adrenaline pumping, Landon immediately jammed an elbow underneath the mass on top of him and pried it away, the hand holding his gun at his side aimed upward, prepared to unload into the body of whatever it was that had landed on him. Lifting up, he saw that it was one of the freaks which had taken over the shop, its skin red and mottled, its thick biker build hidden under a heavy leather jacket.

It was also very unconscious, or perhaps dead. The eyes were closed, and the mouth, filled with disgusting yellow teeth, hung slack, while some disgusting liquid dripped from its forehead. He struggled to pry himself out from under its heavy weight. Henderson had remained at the door side, but she had her weapon aimed at the freak, angled to blast it off of him if it continued to attack.

Landon managed to lever himself up enough to see through the door, to see if any more hostiles were coming out while he was pinned. He blinked at what he saw there. A woman – at least, he thought it was a woman – dressed in a puce leather bodysuit. She was of average height, smaller than Henderson, and slender, almost frail-looking. He would have called her gorgeous, except for the pale, blue-tinged skin and hair; the cold, too-blue eyes. If not for the suit, she would have seemed to blend in with the light blue paint of the hall.

She only smirked as she watched him struggle. Then she turned and disappeared down the short hallway, utterly dismissing him from consideration.

"Hey! Freeze! Goddamn it! Team, go! Go!"

Henderson had finally realized the red freak was not a threat, and rushed over to knock him off Landon with her boot. She swung around, aiming her shotgun at whatever it was her partner had been yelling at, but the hallway was empty.

Finally back on his feet, the sergeant led the way into the building, while a pair of junior officers rushed into the yard behind them to take custody of the unconscious demon. The two SWAT officers advanced into the building with cautious precision, weapons ready.

--------

Inside, all eyes went to Illyria as she strode back into the front area. She marched toward Marc and seized his arm, hauling him to his feet. "You will come with me." She nearly carried him toward the rear office, in front of the bewildered eyes of the other hostages.

Pulling him through the room toward the stairs, the two could hear crashes and shouts as the police squad plowed through the front door and rushed in. Fortunately there was no gunfire, and the hostages could be heard shouting their compliance. The racket faded as the two rapidly climbed the stairs toward the roof. Once up top, Illyria took a moment to insure that none of the humans' flying machines were observing them. She marched toward the edge of the roof, carefully avoiding the front of the building where they would be visible from the street.

"We will jump to the other building."

Marc looked over the edge and sputtered. "What! I can't make that! I'm a freakin' _theologian_ for G-"

He never finished his sentence as Illyria suddenly seized his collar and the seat of his pants. He did manage a squeak as she accelerated him, hurling him bodily over the gap to land with an ungraceful crash on the other side. An instant later she thumped down beside him with all the grace and sure-footedness of a panther.

Reaching down, the Old One hauled the young demon to his feet as he gasped for breath. Together, they ran.

--------

The pair made good time on the trip back to the Hyperion, despite the necessity of keeping to back alleys and out of sight. Marc had offered to call a taxi – a large number of taxi drivers were fellow demons – but again Illyria had adamantly refused. She also shot down the idea of traveling the sewers, and Marc was sufficiently intimidated to avoid pressing the issue. So they scurried from the shadow of one building to another, dashing across streets. They drew some worried glances and stares, but no one challenged them.

The sun was just beginning to ride low in the sky when they walked through the courtyard of the Hyperion to the side doors. Illyria was unable to repress a small measure of relief as she entered the building. Marc followed, subdued, behind her.

As they entered, both Theresa and Connor dashed out from the office area, where they had apparently been watching the television. Connor was smiling, pleased... but the grin faded as he realized that Theresa was motionless beside him, frozen with shock.

The blonde stared at the newcomers; at Illyria's blue hair and skin, at Marc's slate gray visage. Her eyes went wide as she gaped, aghast, at her boyfriend's change. "Marc, what..."

"Theresa... I-"

"What did they do to you?"

Marc looked pained. "Tess, they didn't do anything. This is me." He held out his hands helplessly. "I... My great-grandfather was a Brousha – it's... a kind of demon. I go to that store to get a supplement... it hides the skin colour..." He watched as her jaw dropped more and more in abject horror, her eyes tearing, and spoke more desperately. "Tess, I'm still _me_. I'm _human_, Tess, you-"

"No," Theresa said, backing away, "You're a freak... a freak, and I... I let you..." She clapped a hand over her mouth, and then turned and dashed for the door, her skirt flapping behind her.

Marc stared, heartbroken, at the door as it slowly closed behind the fleeing figure. He looked at Connor, who looked back, sympathetic and without judgment. Then he sank down to sit on the steps, his head held in his hands.

Behind him, seeming almost to stand guard, Illyria observed impassively.

--------

"So they're all accounted for?" Landon asked.

"Affirmative," Henderson replied, while Landon watched the small parade of freaks being led to various trucks and squad cars. Beside him, Lopez was handling the collection and storage of the heavier weapons the team had brought along but ended up not needing. "Building swept, four red uglies in custody. It matches up with what the... uh... witnesses told us."

"And what about Smurfette? The blue woman?"

"Just what we already knew... she showed up, beat the shit out of the bad guys, and then left... taking one of the hostages with her. Apparently the hostage knew her."

"And _how_ did she get in? And out? We were supposed to have the place covered!"

"Uh... we're guessing the roof, Sarge. She came from the direction of the stairs, and we found the top door opened. The lock was ripped off. She probably jumped from the neighbouring building."

"Great." Landon slammed his hands against the side of the squad car, rocking it slightly. "Now we have to be watching the Goddamned roofs."

"Well, it's not like we could have expected it... we don't get many perps who can make a fifteen foot jump three stories off the ground."

"You think maybe she was one of those chicks the guys from the other precincts have been talking about?" Lopez tossed in. "Girls with magic powers who protect people?"

"Don't need magic powers to do that, Lopez," Henderson snarked from the side. "We've been protecting the male gender from itself since time began."

"Now that's just inappropriate, Jackie. Sarge, I think Officer Henderson could use some sensitivity training-"

"I'm glad you two are having fun," Landon snarled. "We've got Kate Moss in body paint running around doing our jobs for us... I guess that means we've got time for witty chat."

"Chill, Sarge," Lopez protested.

"One of the witnesses might have a little more," Henderson supplied quickly. "The owner of the shop. He got her name, and thinks he might know a little bit more about her."

"Where is he? I want to talk to him."

Henderson nodded toward one of the squad cars on the other side of the street. Impatient, Landon stomped in that direction, Henderson following wordlessly in his wake.

When he came upon the car, it was to no great surprise he noticed that the owner was one of the freaks. His skin was dark, dark green, almost black, and seemed to be scaled. His eyes were bright yellow, wide and slitted like a cat's; his nose was little more than a bump extending slightly out from his face. Incongruously, he wore quite ordinary clothes, plain brown slacks and a white pinstripe dress shirt, and he had small spectacles perched on his nose. Sitting there, sideways in the open rear door to the squad car, he did not look threatening – in fact, if anything, the freak looked... nerdy.

The officer he was giving a statement to looked up at Landon's approach. Landon glanced at the cop, pointing wordlessly at the owner, and the officer nodded and waved him forward. The demon glanced up at him, as if he'd been expecting him the entire time.

"I'm Sergeant Landon." He found he couldn't quite bring himself to add a polite 'sir'. "I'm told you know something about our mysterious superwoman."

"It was Illyria," the demon replied, matter-of-fact. His expression – what Landon could interpret of it – was wondrous.

"And this name is supposed to mean something to me?" he replied, harshly.

"I-I doubt more than a handful of beings on this plane of existence would recognize that name if they heard it. Illyria is older than your species, human." The freak gestured with his hands, as if giving a lecture. "She... she is an Ancient, an order of beings of such age and power that they might as well have been gods. And of mighty beings, she was the mightiest – she ruled this world for eons, until she fell like all the other Old Ones, at the hands of each other and the rising of the lesser creatures." The demon looked meaningfully at Landon. "Creatures like you and me, officer."

"Whatever," the sergeant snorted. He shook his head, having a hard time believing he was even listening to this. "So this dead god, who isn't dead anymore, pops out of the ground after millions of years, reads some Batman comics, and says 'Hey, that's the life for me'? Somehow I'd think she'd have better things to do."

"Really, though." The oddly bookish-looking demon looked puzzled, pushing up his spectacles. "I'm quite surprised to see her fighting for the 'little people', especially without killing anyone. And she wasn't quite as powerful as I'd expect, although she's certainly too much for any demon _I_ know to handle." He shrugged. "It may not have truly been her, I'm just guessing. But I have a little bit of the Sight, officer, and she radiated age and power."

Landon sighed, and gestured for the questioning officer to resume his task. The proprietor nodded and switched his attention back obediently; like the others, he was giving the officers no reason to become angry, even when some of them – Stern in particular – skirted the edge of acceptable conduct.

"Do you believe that bullshit?" Landon asked his partner, once they had walked back out of earshot of the demon.

Henderson shrugged noncommittally. "It's a whole new world, Jake," she replied. "You wouldn't believe how much stuff I've been told in the past two weeks that would have gotten me a psych eval before."

For a moment, Landon and Henderson watched one of the red-skinned freaks being escorted toward the wagon, bound in solid cuffs. Two of the others were at the hospital under heavy guard. The hostage situation was resolved; there were no fatalities, no lengthy starve-out period. The witnesses were compliant and unanimous in their accounts. Overall, it was an ideal outcome for a difficult situation... except none of Landon's team had had anything to do with it.

"You know what I miss, Jackie?" Landon remarked to his partner. "I miss the days when my final report to the Chief didn't include the phrase 'rescued by an ancient god in a leather catsuit'. Yeah, those were good times."

Landon walked off toward the team's armored truck, leaving Henderson smirking with complete understanding at his back.


	7. Reunion

Vanessa Talbot was running.

She was a good runner; track team leader through all her high school career, top twenty placement in every one of the Lung Cancer Society charity marathons the past six years. Her old room at her parents' had an entire wall lined with trophies from track meets. Even though it was crunch time for her thesis, she still found the time to do nothing but run for a few hours each night. It helped her think – it was her meditation, her _lung-gom-pa_, and the problems and stress of university life were left behind.

She wasn't running fast enough.

The night had started off rather well; Sarah always had great parties, and Vanessa had needed to unwind. The beer had been cold, the music good, and Vanessa had made note of at least two guys – including one from her own kinesiology program – who were worth future attention.

It was because of the beer, and the boys, that Vanessa didn't notice the sun going down, the other party-goers beginning to clear out. She knew better than to try to walk Los Angeles' streets after sundown, but despite how low the orange ball was in the sky, she thought she had plenty of time. She'd refused Sarah's offers to let her crash there, assuring her that she'd make good time, would be back to her apartment long before nightfall.

She was, of course, wrong. The sun was gone long before she was anywhere near home. And at roughly the halfway mark, she picked up two followers. She didn't need to turn to see them; the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and it felt like someone had trickled ice water down her spine.

As she walked faster, so did they. And when she broke into a run, she definitely heard a delighted, cruel laugh. She ran, and ran, and always there was the sound of their pursuit. They did not seem to tire; even when Vanessa's lean muscles and trained lungs began to cry out, they had breath to spare for hoots and shouts. In contrast, her legs were turning to rubber, and each breath she took felt like it scorched its way down her throat.

In her panicked flight, she lost all sense of direction in the empty streets. She screamed for help, but there was either no one to hear, or no one to care. The buildings around her towered above like grim sentinels, silent and dark, making her feel small... though not nearly so small and hidden as she would prefer to be at the moment.

The chase ended on some small, obscure street. She had no idea where in Los Angeles it was; it felt to her like she'd run the entire length of the city, and if you'd asked her at the time she probably couldn't tell you which country she was in. The only place that interested her was _someplace else_. The street she stood in instead was the very picture of urban decay. Small brick buildings lined either side, and they might have once been healthy shops, but now were dead and hollowed out, corpses no one cared enough about to even bury, their windows covered in plywood and trash unswept at their entrances. A few street lamps still operated, casting a mild glow over the nearby sidewalks, but the indifferent light only made the street more sickly, like the work lights of a morgue.

Her pursuers put an end to the chase rather quickly. Her hair, crimped and done up in a fluffy ponytail for the party, was her undoing. One moment she was running – the next her head was snapped back, her legs flying out from under her, and she landed painfully on her back and arm upon the cracked cement of the sidewalk. Then, before she could even begin to comprehend what had happened, she was hauled back up by her hair into an embrace from behind, the pain from her bare knees scraping the ground a distant concern.

She screeched, and clawed behind her with her fingernails, and as reward her head was yanked back even further, until it felt as if her spine was going to snap. The arm that circled her waist, pinning one of her arms, was like a steel bar, and a male voice giggled behind her like a hyena.

She was swung around to face the other man. In any other situation, he would have looked like any other fellow on the street: plain jeans, a terribly outdated Grateful Dead t-shirt, and short brown hair cut into a crew cut. But in the shadows from the street light, she saw the planed, hideously-distorted face and yellow eyes, and his grin as he swaggered toward her was malicious. She wailed in anguish, tears of fright streaking her makeup into dark stripes down her cheeks.

Her terror seemed to only excite the freaks further. The one holding her yanked at her hair a bit more savagely, and nuzzled her neck from behind like some perverse lover. A cold, wet tongue traced up her carotid. The one in front looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her breasts and the light chocolate of the exposed thighs below her shorts, and her skin crawled. He examined her like a customer sizing up a chop at the market – and she realized that to him, she probably was. She whimpered.

The one in front suddenly spoke to his buddy. "We should turn her."

"What? No way man, after the last one-"

"Dude, I am totally over Heidi."

"Whatever. She had you so whipped. 'Jay, let's go a a movie', 'Jay, watch Passions with me', 'Jay, don't eat Italians, they're bad for you'," the other replied in a singsong voice. "You didn't even have the guts to break up with her yourself."

"I've matured as a vampire. I'm ready to move on."

"I'm just letting you know that _I'm_ not going to be sweeping up the dust from your next breakup. You can do that yourself."

Yellow eyes rolled in their sockets. "Whatever." Jay grabbed her chin, his mouth wide in a hideous smile, exposing far-too-long teeth. He forced her head to the side, while the vampire behind her pulled a little harder. He mouth descended on her neck, his words puffing chill air onto her throat. "Don't worry baby, this'll only hurt for a while..."

Sobbing, she closed her eyes against the inevitable; so, she didn't see the cause when there was a sharp slapping sound and a grunt, and then another. The freak holding her suddenly jerked her back by his grip on her hair, sending her stumbling backwards and rolling against the wall as he let go. Her head struck the brick of the abandoned building, and for a moment she could only lay there, stunned.

When she'd gathered her wits enough to look up, she saw an unlikely sight: a woman, just a silhouette in the darkness, was pummeling the two freaks with ease. One was picked up and hurled bodily against the wall of the building Vanessa lay against, bouncing noisily off the plywood which covered the front window. The young woman yelped and recoiled away from him, scrabbling backwards crablike on the ground, but he was nearly senseless and didn't focus on her.

As he staggered to his feet, the other vampire – the one who had suggested "turning" Vanessa – was receiving the worst of the attacking woman's attention. She easily slapped aside some punches that looked blindly fast and vicious to Vanessa's eyes, and then responded with a strike of her own, a kick to the stomach so powerful it lifted the man from his feet and sent him arcing into the circle of yellow light of the nearby lamppost. He flew into the post itself, the metal cylinder warping slightly from the impact, and spun almost comically in midair before landing on the pavement with a grunt.

Jay's friend, seeing this, leaped at her rescuer. The woman was prepared, though; she caught the vampire as he came down upon her and swung him around to slam into the side of a rusted white Ford Escort that sat unoccupied at the curbside. The car rocked from the force of the impact, and the unneeded breath in the vampire's lungs left all at once in a loud wuff. As he lay pressed there, her fists angled in from either side, snapping his head back and forth like a flag.

Finally, the woman drew back her right arm, and with her hand clawed, plunged it downward. Vanessa couldn't quite understand what the woman was doing, even as the side window the freak lay against shattered behind him. Then, to the young woman's surprise, the freak exploded into a brief cloud of ash and dust, which settled quickly in the stale night air.

The woman had punched completely through the vampire, tearing out his heart on the way through. Vanessa gasped, covering her mouth in horror and elation.

The woman's head turned to Jay, who had just recovered his feet. Her movements were unnatural, almost reptilian; Vanessa caught the impression of long, dark hair cascading over the woman's slender shoulders, a slightly longish nose, and a strange leather bodysuit. She looked nowhere near as strong as she was proving to be, instead seeming almost fragile and waifish. Strangely, this seemed to amplify rather than lessen her air of menace, as she stood straight and gave her attention to Jay.

The other vampire, seeing this, opted for the better part of valour and fled down the street. The mysterious woman didn't even bother to give chase; she stepped toward the lamp post, reaching out and tearing loose a metal 'No parking' sign which had stood impotently over the abandoned Ford. She flung it like a frisbee at the departing figure, the sheet metal making a brief song as it cut the air. Vanessa witnessed the silhouettes of head and body travelling briefly in separate directions, before both burst into clouds of ash.

Unable to help herself, Vanessa nearly sobbed with relief as she staggered to her feet. "Oh God, thank you so much, they-"

Her thanks caught in her throat as the woman turned to face her, and the pathetic light offered by the damaged street light revealed her fully. She saw the blue-tinged hair and skin, the inhumanly blue eyes. She'd been saved by the freaks by another freak. Her relief was washed away under a fresh wave of fear.

The woman took a step toward her, and suddenly she felt like dinner on the table again. She would have run, but she was backed up against the wall. The woman didn't seem to walk so much as slither in her slow gait toward her, and the snakelike manner was aided by the emotionless, unblinking stare. She stopped just an arm's length from Vanessa, and though she was taller, the young woman felt very much like an ant under the magnifying glass.

"You are foolish, to roam these places after sundown," the woman said, her voice as cold as the rest of her appeared. "Have you no sense?"

Her mouth was suddenly very dry. "I-"

"I am not interested in your excuses." The young woman's mouth shut with a click, and she could only stare, hypnotized, at those unyielding blue eyes.

One leather-clad arm raised and pointed in a direction up the street. "The nearest concentration of humans is located in that direction, in a human shopping complex. If you haste, you will arrive within just a few minutes." Her head tilted, and a few blue locks spilled forward across her shoulder. "Do not pause, lest you merit further attention from others such as these."

Vanessa couldn't believe her luck. She was being let go? She hesitated, fearful that as soon as she turned her back the freak woman would do something terrible.

"Go!" the woman barked.

Vanessa ran.

--------

Connor wasn't doing much better than the two vampires had.

He swept one leg around, but Illyria easily hopped over it, her foot snapping out like a snake to catch him behind the knee, staggering him. He tried to use the momentum to his advantage, coming around the other side with a backfist, but she caught the arm short of her face, and suddenly he was torqued upwards, elbow towards the sky, and he was forced to his toes to avoid the joint coming apart. He was wide open for a backfist to the ribs, and she didn't disappoint him, following up the strike with a shove that sent him tumbling backwards across the marble floor of the Hyperion.

Connor's memories from his "real" life were still fuzzy, and he had no real desire to recover them. Some memories resided more in the muscles than the brain, though, and he was more than capable of holding his own in a fight... usually. But Illyria was unimaginably experienced in pure combat, handicapped only by her new body and the draining of her powers, and there were few techniques Connor could pull out that she hadn't seen many times before. Worse, she could still hit as hard as SahJahn ever could, and wasn't as inclined to pause in the middle of a fight to mouth-off.

His father had fought this? _Before_ she was de-powered?

Man.

Frustrated, Connor staggered to his feet. Just a few metres away, Illyria stood, arrogant, watching him amusedly. His anger got the best at him and he leaped at her, fist raised, arcing down toward her face.

Or where her face had been, at any rate. She stepped to the side almost leisurely, and Connor nearly impaled himself on her outstretched fist, the force of his jump doing most of the work. She pulled it back and he crumpled to the floor, heaving in an attempt to recover his breath.

He felt Illyria grabbing his collar to haul him to his feet for more, and managed to choke out a protest. "Enough! I give! I give!"

Her hand let go, and she stepped back, shrugging. From the hotel's reception desk, Marc ticked an invisible point in the air without looking up from his notebook.

"That pouncing technique is unwise," she said, as if commenting on a golf game. "It is slow, easily avoided, and leaves you vulnerable. Both your father and Spike made use of it... it never worked for the better."

"I'm getting that," he grunted, as he pushed himself back up, limping over on his sore leg to sit on the round couch where they'd pushed it aside. He rubbed the aching spot on his chest; no doubt there was an enormous bruise already forming. Hopefully his accelerated healing would take care of it before he had to explain it in the locker room at the hospital tomorrow.

The blue woman watched him carefully. "You are improving, however," she noted.

"A compliment?"

"An observation."

One corner of his mouth raised. "So someday I might actually win a spar with you?"

Her head tilted in response. "No." Connor snorted in amusement at the expected answer.

The three sat – or in Illyria's case, stood – in relative silence for a few minutes, Connor puffing on the settee as he recovered his breath.

"Dude." Connor looked over at Marc, who was waving Connor's watch back and forth by the strap.

"Crap." He levered himself to his feet and moved over to fetch his watch and gather his knapsack from where it sat, unopened, on the desk.

"You are leaving?" Illyria queried.

"My family's in town. I promised I'd have dinner with them."

"Family time. Don't it suck," muttered Marc from the side.

Connor smiled lopsidedly at his friend. Marc had often envied Connor's close relationship with his family, and even before Vail's spell had been shattered Connor had realized how lucky he was. Now, he knew more than ever. "So you'll stick around here for a while?"

"Yeah. Mind if I use the computer there to type this up?"

"No problem, if it still works."

"Thanks. See you tomorrow."

The young man nodded to his friend and headed to the front door of the hotel. He glanced over his shoulder at his blue sparring partner, smiling, and waved a hand in farewell. She merely tilted her head slightly in response, but Connor had decided that this was as close to a wave as she would permit himself. Hopping up the short length of stares two at a time, he strode out into the late light of the day, already looking forward to the meal with his adoptive parents and sister.

As the door clicked closed behind Connor, Marc shook his head. "That boy is nuts."

Illyria looked at the young hybrid. He had found another source for the drugs he needed to hide his demon heritage, so his eyes were back to their normal green, his skin a dark pink typical for a human. Now that she knew to pay attention, though, Illyria could detect the very faint taint to the scent of his flesh that marked his true nature. "Why?"

He lifted his brow at her. "Forgive me for saying so, but trading shots with an Ancient isn't my definition of fun."

She walked slowly over to the reception desk. "'Fun' is meaningless. He is strong, and I will make him stronger."

"You do realize he's a med student, right?"

"I am aware of his foolishly pacifistic tendencies. I am also aware of the preternatural circumstances of his birth. The threads of fate and destiny cannot simply be shaken off like fair-weather clothing. When those ties begin to pull, whether he heeds or resists, he will need power."

Marc dropped the pen into the fold of his notebook and leaned forward onto the desk. The gaze he fixed upon the blue demoness was pointed. "And what do you get out of it?"

She glowered at him, and her voice sharpened. "What do you mean?"

"I know something of what the Old Ones spent their time on. It was all-war, all-the-time, wasn't it?" There was no accusation in the young man's tone, and he seemed genuinely curious. "Accruing power was a way of life for you people, wasn't it?"

"You speak truth. Yet those times are long dead, consumed by the world which gave them birth."

"Are you sure? They seem to be having a bit of a revival these days."

She snorted in a very un-Illyria-like manner. "It cannot compare. The greater beings no longer walk this realm. The distribution of power has grown too dilute. Individually humans are weak, but together, they are a force to challenge even the Ancients."

Marc either didn't notice or ignored her implicitly excluding him from the rank of humanity. "You're here."

"And I am impotent, a mere shadow of my former self."

He shrugged. "You seemed to kick those red guys' asses handily enough."

She bared her teeth at him. "Further evidence of my weakness. Once, the mere mention of my name would have cowed them. My servitors were feared across the realms, and if I appeared upon the battlefield myself, my foes would slay themselves in recognition of my glory."

"Wow. Morihei Ueshiba meets Genghis Khan."

The demoness blinked. "Who?"

He shook his head. "Never mind." He looked at her again. "So you're _not_ out to rebuild what you lost?"

Reaching out, she caressed the long leaf of a spider fern Marc had brought in, reclaimed with Connor's help from Theresa's apartment. It sat in its pot, healthy and watered, likely singing to her at that very moment. But she was deaf... she could not hear.

She fixed Marc with a gaze which could have almost been considered sad. "What I have lost cannot be regained. All I have valued has been taken from me, twice. Once by humans, once by demons. It has left me... bereft."

Marc looked down at his paper. Sadness curled around him like a cloak. "Yeah, I think I know something of what that's like."

"I no longer possess the power to protect that which should be mine. I do not wish to... to form _attachments_ when they can now be so easily torn away."

"And yet, you're taking it upon yourself to make sure Connor can handle anything that happens to him."

She lifted her hand from the plant. She had no rejoinder, no justification. "Yes, I suppose I do," she replied, nearly a whisper. "I suppose I still seek to be... surprised."

Marc did not reply.

--------

As soon as the sun set, and darkness lay over Los Angeles, Illyria left Marc to his work and set off into the city. She felt a particular need to roam this night, and hoped that the opportunity for violence would present itself, like the foolish young human and the two vampires the night before. The two half-breeds had not been a challenge, mere straw before her storm, but they had offered distraction. And the alternating adoration and fear of the girl had been amusing.

She maintained her human appearance only so long as it took her to navigate to an alleyway. There, she scaled a long steel drainage pipe, her fingers nearly sinking into the rust-mottled metal, and hopped up onto a nearby rooftop. A leap carried her from one roof to the next. She had no set destination; she desired merely to wander.

It was a game she played at night, inspired by her own actions when rescuing Marc. She would gain the top of a building and then travel in a random direction, keeping to the heights as much as possible. The buildings of Los Angeles wildly varied in height, and she could not always find means of getting from one building to the next, so she would sometimes be forced to backtrack and find another path.

Illyria enjoyed being on the rooftops, above the mortals of the planet and their noise and smells and cramped little spaces. Looking down upon the streets reminded her of a time when she viewed the denizens of this world from a similar height, a colossus, removed from mundane concerns both physically and mentally. Now she was down on the ground with the rest, drowning in the miasma of emotion and empathy and fellowship. There was nothing she could do about it.

And, in her worst moments, she sometimes didn't want to.

Her heedless wandering lasted long enough for the moon to travel a quarter-way up the sky, until she came to a wide alleyway with a taller building on the other side, bereft of handholds for her to jump to.

The alley was like the innumerable others she'd seen, a paved canyon between walls of brick and concrete. Not even the meager wind touched these places, and the trash and soot lay forgotten and undisturbed, staining the sun-whitened asphalt and brick. The smell of rot, oil, and stale water reached Illyria even on the rooftop.

She paused upon a fire escape which led down into the alley, looking out upon the city. She could not see the stars, and for a moment this frustrated her. The lights of the city seemed to wrap the earth in a smothering orange blanket, blotting out all the lights in the sky save the moon. The careless activity of the humans dominated, cutting off even this minor view of the greater glories of the universe. Few of them noticed and less cared that this was so. It was metaphor for her own experiences, and she found the realization disheartening.

_I had a dream I had a name..._

Alone, unobserved, she permitted herself the indignity of a hopeless sigh. She crouched down on the metal platform, arms crossed over her knees, and rested her chin upon her arms. She closed her eyes to shut out the pervasive light. It was not a true escape; the clatter and racket of the city assailed her still.

She sat there for a period of time, until the sound of nearby shouts caught her attention. The majority was mirth, but there was a lone voice that occasionally cried out in pain. The voice was familiar, though she could not immediately place it. The sounds were also approaching via the alley below her... she stood to better see.

From her perch on the fire escape, Illyria viewed the source of the ruckus. One lone figure, a dark shape in the bright moonlight, fled down the wide alleyway. His movements were awkward and stiff, and she concluded that he had been injured. Behind him, just metres away, a crowd moved in pursuit; they shouted insults and laughter, and the occasional figure flung stones and bottles at their quarry.

One of these projectiles found their mark, bouncing off the back of the victim's head and sending him tumbling to the ground. The crowd, a dozen in all, hooted with approval. The demon – Illyria's senses told her he was such – rolled weakly on the ground. Almost instantly the group of humans had him surrounded him in a thick crescent, maintaining a careful distance, but it was obvious that they were not yet finished with the unfortunate being.

Illyria had witnessed much worse in her long existence. She had endorsed much worse. Yet for some reason this display ignited a rage within her, and it was almost to her own surprise that she leaped from the rooftop toward the circle of humans. It was most certainly to theirs as she thumped down onto the asphalt between the crowd and the helpless demon.

The humans, startled, jumped back at her sudden arrival, watching her fearfully. She glared at them, but numbers made them brave, and they recovered quickly. Not for the first time, she cursed the slender, unthreatening appearance of her vessel.

"Well, it looks like we got a party crasher," commented one of them, a large blonde male wearing jeans and a thick jacket. He was young, barely older than Connor; and as Illyria scanned the hostile throng, she realized they were all male... and all relatively youthful. Even the ancient demon recognized the combination as trouble.

"And another freak! Look at her!" came a voice to her right.

"I didn't know they made 'em that scrawny," said another.

"You sure she ain't human?"

"I am no human," Illyria growled.

"Then we got a problem, don't we?" replied the blonde.

"Why? You have had your sport. It is best you leave."

"No, the point is to make _you_ leave. This is _our_ city. Freaks need not apply! Stick around, and bad things happen."

Illyria bared her teeth and prepared to answer, not a threat but a promise on her tongue, but a sound from behind her made her pause. "I-Illyria?" a weak voice questioned.

She risked a glance over her shoulder, recognizing the unfortunate victim of the mob. She carefully kept her expression neutral. "Lorne," she said.

It was no wonder she did not recognize him immediately; the green singer was without his normal garish attire, wearing relatively subdued slacks and a plain long sleeve shirt. Blood ran down his prominent chin, and one eye was bruised and swollen. He managed to prop himself up on one arm, painfully, and watched Illyria with a look of surprise.

"Well," noted the human with interest. "I didn't think freaks had friends."

"Must be her boyfriend," one of the punks joked. "Blue and green... I'd hate to see the kids."

She didn't permit these apes the honour of gaining a reaction. "You will not attack this being any longer."

A ripple of amusement passed through the gang. The blonde stepped forward, using his greater height to challenge her. "Or... what?"

Her stare was unwavering, her voice unyielding. "Or I shall punish you."

The human seemed to find this tremendously amusing. He laughed, and his followers joined in, though some did so nervously, possessing enough intellect to wonder why she wasn't intimidated.

Lorne had a better idea what would happen. He staggered to his feet, clutching one injured elbow to his side. He favoured one leg, and had lost one of his horns. Regardless, he pleaded with the fallen goddess. "Leery... they're just kids. Don't hurt them."

"I will not kill them," she answered the green demon, her eyes never leaving the tall human in front of her. "However, it may be to their own future benefit if I were to... hurt them."

"Hah!" a dark skinned human to her left laughed. "Mary-Kate's gonna hurt us! We'd better watch out!" Another burst of chuckling from the group.

The tall leader didn't seem to find this amusing, however. He leaned down toward her, sneering. "I know how you freaks work. You're plenty brave when you're hunting down humans by themselves, but you clear out quick when we get together, ain't that right?" He spat the question in her face.

Illyria cocked her head at him.

Then punched him in the face, sending him flying backwards to tumble upon the ground. The others jumped away from her.

She glared at them, opening her arms wide as if to receive them. "Insolent whelps! Prove your worth, then!" she snarled as challenge. Behind her, Lorne moaned. The group stared at her frightfully for a moment, and then one member yelled a battle cry. And the fight was on.

The first two she didn't even bother hitting; as they charged she placed one hand on the chest of each and pushed, sending them airborne to crash into their comrades. One of the men made the mistake of grabbing her shoulder from behind, spinning her about. She was well-prepared then for the predictable swing of a fist, which she parried aside and answered with a backfist to his ribs as she turned. The man grunted from the force of the blow, and his feet nearly left the ground; contemptuously, she pushed him away to crumple against the side of the alley.

She swept low, knocking the feet from under one punk, and instantly jumped high, her boot catching another across the face. One heavyset fellow grabbed her from behind to try to restrain her; an instant later he was screaming as she grabbed his hands and pried them away, her slender fingers nearly crushing his thick ones. Then both elbows slammed backwards into soft flesh, and he was sent flying.

She had been forgotten. Her kingdom was dust. Her power had been ripped away from her. But she was and always would be Illyria... and she would teach these fools what that meant.

Forgotten, Lorne limped over to the side of the alley. He watched, shaking his head, as the lesson was given.

She dodged and leaped above their blows, answering with strikes that were carefully controlled to not cause permanent harm, but were devastating nevertheless. Grunt and screams; the crash from a nearby dumpster as one man was sent into it with sufficient force to leave a dent in the steel; others of the gang were sent ricocheting off the either side of the alley. None of the group appeared to have participated in more than a school yard brawl, and the challenge to the demoness was non-existent. It was only the need to avoid lasting damage to the soft, fragile shells of the humans which made the fight interesting at all.

One human, the dark one who had called her "Mary-Kate", had brought a bat along on his excursion. He swung it desperately at the blue demon, and she toyed with him for a few moments, ducking and dodging the swings, letting him tire himself. When she'd had enough she caught the bat in mid-arc, stopping it with sufficient force to sent a shock up the man's arms. His eyes went wide, and she smiled cruelly at him, relishing his fear.

She tore the bat away, and though she could have used it to crush his skull, she instead used her other hand to strike the human in the face, sending him to join many of his friends on the ground. The bat was flung away, to land on a rooftop somewhere out of sight.

Finally, the more intelligent members of the group who remained conscious began to flee. One final stubborn member, a gangly youth already bloodied and bruised, threw finesse to the wind and attempted to tackle her. Illyria easily stepped aside of his charge, catching his belt with her fingers as he passed by and accelerating him into the rough wall. He grunted as he impacted, and then fell to the ground like a rag doll.

"Goddamned freak-bitch!" She snapped around at the epithet. The gang leader had stood, blood pouring from his nose. He was pulling something out from under his jacket; moonlight traced the dark metal outline of a revolver.

He was too far away – even with her speed, she wouldn't be able to close the gap in time, and she couldn't outrun a bullet. She began to move, hoping the human was a poor shot.

Within, one aspect suddenly began to throw up images and concepts. Numbers and formulae; energy flows and particle interactions. More memories from the shell, she realized. _Now is not the time!_ she raged internally as she nearly tripped from the unexpected distraction. The aspect ignored her demands, and worse, another joined in – pulling up other knowledge, memories from Illyria herself. It was rebellion of her mind against itself, and she was powerless to stop it.

She had no idea what effect a bullet would have on the shell's rebuilt internals, but she knew it would likely be crippling, at least enough for the human to finish her off. As the human took aim, as the fragments of her intellect warred, she flung up a hand desperately.

And the rebel aspects took action. The memories of the shell and the mystical knowledge from Illyria combined and poured forth. The air rippled in front of the demoness, and time itself slowed to notice.

That brief time distortion helped hide one thing from the world: Illyria's look of utter astonishment.

She was still moving, but the sudden energy expenditure staggered her, and she slammed into the opposite wall of the alley, panting. Around her, the world continued to move as if smothered in amber. The punk she'd just thrown rolling across the asphalt, debris tossed in his wake; the youth who'd pulled the gun, his face twisting in rage, and a drop of blood falling leisurely to the ground from his chin.

This was impossible. She no longer possessed the kind of power needed to warp time in this way. _What did I do?_ she demanded of herself. The aspects that had rebelled had no explanation; they now marched in step with the rest of her mind.

The distortion was already beginning to fade, her sharp senses could tell, and she abandoned introspection. The warp collapsed just as she began to move toward the gun-toting punk. There was a sharp report as he pulled the trigger, but the bullet merely pierced the empty air where she'd been, smashing off the concrete wall of a building. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he saw her suddenly appear on the other side of the alley, and by the time he tried to swing the gun to face her she was already upon him.

Her left hand grabbed the gun and the hand that held it, even as the other caught the man by the throat. His free hand grabbed her wrist, and he struggled, but her grip was like iron and his eyes widened in terror as she slowly began to squeeze. He looked for help from his comrades, but those that had not already fled, or were still conscious, were backing away in fear.

"Cowardly vermin!" she hissed. "Who now lacks spine when challenging a lone opponent?"

The young man was turning purple, the balls of his feet barely touching the ground, and his mouth gulped like a fish. His struggles began to weaken.

"Illyria!"

She closed her eyes in annoyance at Lorne's intervention, but released the punk's throat, and he collapsed to the ground, gasping. She still held the gun, but loosened her grip on his hand, and he let go immediately. Red marks adorned where livid bruises would form the shape of her fingers later.

He looked up in fear as she stepped close to look down on him, as he had attempted to look down upon her. She said nothing, holding the gun above him and then using both hands to snap it in two. The bullets fell from the cylinder and rained upon his face, and with finality, she let the pieces fall to bounce off his heaving chest. Then, with the same unnerving silence, she walked away.

She approached Lorne, who leaned against one of the buildings. He continued to clutch his arm, and a thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Can you walk?" she asked without preamble. He nodded. "Good." She began to walk away, but suddenly paused, turning back to look at him in that odd manner of hers.

"Tag, you're it," she said. Then she strode away, the remaining punks maintaining a respectful distance.

The green singer watched her retreating back for a moment before moving to follow. "Nice to see you, too, bluebird," he muttered wryly.


	8. Relatives

The memories came to her sometimes during her meditations. They found her easily, even within the enormous crystalline mazes of her own mind, stalking her like a cunning jungle cat. Always she resisted them; they stank of emotion and human desire, and she would not be willingly subject to anything so base. Yet they were relentless, indomitable; sometimes she could repel them, but they always returned, stronger, to overwhelm and consume her.

They were of the shell: bits and pieces of Winifred Burkle's life, experienced out of order, rarely with any coherence or pattern. Some were inert, simple matters of day-to-day life. Others were painful, bloated with despair and hopelessness, carrying sorrow and pain across the scape of Illyria's mind like a heavy storm cloud. The memories of Fred's time in Pylea were odd, like looking through a river to see the bottom, wavering and distorted, soaked in seemingly random extremes of emotion.

One memory she had hated above all the rest. She had fought it, like all the others, but it had engulfed her regardless, brushing aside the former god's struggles with careless ease.

A darkened room, decorated in red, a place of safety and belonging, of home. Heat and sensation; the sweet vanilla scent of candles; roughened hands, hands which wielded death for some, sliding along her leg and shoulder with the softness and warmth of sunlight. A tightness in her belly, an elation and excitement which had nothing to do with battle.

And _him_... Wesley... on top of her, moving, uttering formless words of love and desire. There was no smell of liquor, no stench of grief. His eyes did not look away painfully as he watched her. He did not push her away as if her touch burned, but instead pulled her as close as possible... and yet closer still.

He was happy... a state of Wesley so unfamiliar to Illyria that she didn't recognize it until the memory was over.

She hated them. She hated the fact that she could be enslaved so easily to the fragments of a dead woman's life, that she could be forced to feel things she _should not feel_. Joy became the results of a mathematical formula, or the adoration of a single human male – where once it had been the conquest of a continent, the willing or unwilling worship of its populace. Fear, sorrow, and hopelessness became familiar, where once they had been conceptual things experienced by lesser creatures. She hated that, even in the safety of her own mind, within the mighty fortress of her own experiences, she could be made to feel small.

She hated the fact that she desperately wanted to experience more.

--------

Lorne had settled into the Hyperion in rather short order. His old room was still there, and still contained a number of his lurid garments, which raised the demon's spirits considerably. A bubble bath, a terrycloth robe, and a drink with twice the recommended amount of vodka, and the singer was feeling much better.

Connor had helped treat his injuries, and permitted him to stay at the hotel as long as he felt necessary. Lorne was rather surprised, to be offered such kindness from a person he only remembered as a temporary client of Wolfram and Hart – and a human besides. Neither Connor nor Illyria bothered to explain Angel's reality-altering deal with the law firm. But Lorne's naturally effervescent personality won out, and he accepted the hospitality of the odd young man – who for some reason Angel had given the hotel – with grace.

Illyria had no idea what had possessed her to lead the demon clown back to the Hyperion. He had irritated her long before they'd left Wolfram and Hart, and he showed no signs of changing that now. Perhaps it was because he was familiar, and familiar was preferable. Perhaps it was because Connor would remember him. Or maybe it was because Lorne had been upset and sympathetic when he learned of the deaths of Wesley and Charles, and only spoke well of them. For that, she was willing to tolerate him.

He was not able to leave the hotel easily, and did not make frequent attempts to do so. He sponsored reactivating the hotel's phone, and made constant use of it, contacting many of his friends, demon and otherwise, in the entertainment industry.

It was useful for tracking the attitudes of the world as it came to terms with the knowledge that demons and magic were not merely fantasy. Already a few major actors, and more minor, had been revealed to be non-human in nature, and their careers were on the verge of being destroyed, or accelerated. Humanity was confused and frightened, poised on the cusp of disaster or acceptance, and there were individuals on both sides trying to alter the outcome.

So it was to little interest to Illyria when the phone rang in the Hyperion's office about a week after Lorne's arrival. It was a weekend, a quiet Saturday, and Connor had the day off from his part-time work at the hospital. He was taking the opportunity to sort through some of the old case files left behind by Angel Investigations, with the assistance of Lorne.

With humanity being aware of the presence of demons, Connor had concluded that the A.I. files would be useful for the Los Angeles police, perhaps helping them close unsolved murders and the like. With the green demon's assistance, he was sorting through those files, separating those with confidentially agreements from the more open and unsolved cases.

The two worked together in Angel's old office, chatting amicably. Unobtrusively – which was in itself unusual – Illyria remained to the side, observing, only periodically picking up a file under the guise of idle curiosity.

If either man had watched more closely, they might have realized that she only ever selected folders which had been written up by Wesley. His scent was left on many of the papers, undetectable except perhaps by Connor, and the young man would not have been able to distinguish the faint variations in the remaining essence left behind. Before even reading the text written in Wesley's precise, angular script, the demoness could tell how the case had ended; his flesh had left behind the markers of his emotions as clearly as his pen left his words, whether honeyed victory, sour defeat, or the bitter reek of frustration.

The phone buzzed, a more modern replacement for the older model Angel had preferred during his time in the office. Connor ignored it as he flipped through the file cabinet near the office door; Lorne was already sitting at the desk, and the call was undoubtedly for the singer anyway.

The demon plucked the phone from the cradle. "Hey! Sing to me!" he greeted.

She knew something was wrong as the brightness faded from his face as he listened. "Oh... Hi, Trish. Yeah, it's Lorne..."

Trish Burkle. The shell's mother.

Connor stood, sensing the sudden change in the atmosphere of the room. He watched Lorne as the green demon became solemn.

"Don't tell them!"

Illyria's attention spun to the the doorway to the office. The human girl! Dressed similarly to the previous time she had appeared to the demoness, the girl appeared to have aged the equivalent of two years in the span of a month. She watched the demon queen with fright, her eyes wide and begging, wringing the bottom of her pale blue t-shirt in her small hands.

"Yeah... we lost a bunch of good people that night... Angel, Gunn, and Wesley..."

The girl spoke again, her voice plaintive, her eyes beginning to shed tears. "Don't tell them! Don't let him tell them! Please!"

Illyria's eyes snapped between Lorne and Connor. Lorne continued to speak on the phone; he was speaking of trivialities, gathering himself to convey the bad news. Connor was watching the demon with sympathy, even though their intruder stood just an arm's length behind him.

_They didn't see!_

"Listen, honey... about Fred..."

Two of Illyria's aspects spun off to consider how the girl could be invisible to the other two beings. Two more argued the nature of what she was asking.

One suggested the most obvious action: defy her. Let the Burkles be told. The girl was an anomaly, an annoyance, perhaps even an enemy. Strike at her via any means possible.

The other counselled caution. Her motives were unclear. She had not directly acted against the demon queen, and had offered assistance – of a sort – when she first encountered her. Once the Burkles gained the truth, options were closed. They could always be told later.

Then there was a third. It did not suggest. It did not recommend. There was no reasoned consideration. It poured forth raw, liquid need, an unignorable chant of _protect them_. Images of Trish Burkle sobbing into her hands, Roger beside her, not permitting himself to cry but his face reddened and jaw clenched all the same, the heavy weight of grief in the air... _protect them protect them..._

The Ancient moved forward quickly, laying a hand to Lorne's arm before he could continue. "Do not tell them," she commanded, quietly.

"Wha..." He started, surprised. "Just a sec, Trish..." He pressed the phone to his shoulder, and looked at the blue woman who was glaring at him. "Illyria, what-"

_Protect them protect them..._ She fought to keep her voice impassive."Do not tell them of Winifred Burkle. Allow them to remain ignorant for the time being."

"Leery-"

"Please don't let him tell them!" The girl was sobbing now. _Protect them..._

The conflict sprung forth the only way Illyria knew how to express: anger. Her grip on his arm became crushing. "_Tell them nothing!_" To her side, Connor stepped away from the wall, surprised by her actions, unsure of what to do.

Impatient, she moved with blinding speed and snatched the phone from Lorne's grasp, nearly crushing the plastic handle in her haste. He was knocked back into the padded leather chair, looking up at her with shock. His eyes widened further as she lifted the phone to her head, and Fred's voice issued from her mouth.

"Mom?"

"Oh, honey! Thank god! We were so worried about you! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom. I'm so sorry I didn't call... things have been so crazy here..."

"We saw! We saw the news, and then there was no answer at your office or apartment..."

"I know. I'm sorry Mom."

There was a long pause as, from three states away, the human woman's senses told her something was wrong. "Honey, are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm really fine, Mom, I just..." Her mouth seemed to operate of its own accord. "I miss them."

"Oh, Fred... I'm so sorry. If... if you need someone to talk to..."

"I'll call. I will. I'll be okay, Mom, I really will. Tell Dad that too, alright?"

Trish's voice was hesitant, as if there was more she wished to say. But she was sensitive, and knew better than to force a person to deal with grief before they were ready. "'Kay, hun. We're just glad you're all right. Remember we're here, 'kay?"

"I will."

A pause. "We love you, dear."

She closed her eyes. Four words, which silenced the conflict in the demon queen's mind, and yet at the same time set a weight upon her chest which made it nearly impossible to breathe.

"I love you too, Mom. Bye."

She set the phone back into its cradle, trying to hide the shaking of her hands. When she looked up, both Connor and Lorne were looking at her with a mixture of surprise and horror, and the silence was thick.

Lorne's voice was soft. "What did you just _do_?"

Her own voice, as cold as it ever had been. "I did what was necessary."

In the doorway, or inside her own mind, there was a relieved sigh, and a fading echo of sorrow. When she looked, the girl was gone, as Illyria had suspected she would be. Frustration washed through her, and for a brief moment she again considered the possibility that she was going mad. Both men watched her, upset by her actions, and she was forced to think of Wesley, and his rejection.

"Illyria-" Lorne began again.

"I have my reasons!" she snapped.

"Yes, but what!" he replied. She had never seen him so serious, so close to true anger. "Why do you want them to think their daughter is still alive? They need to be told, Illyria..."

She didn't care. They were only mortals, humans, and their idiotic concerns were irrelevant. Gaining an advantage, determining the nature of the girl only she could see, the one who was influencing her somehow, was paramount above all else. She clenched her hands at her sides to hide their trembling.

"You will tell them _nothing_ until I expressly permit it," she hissed. "If you defy me, I will kill you."

She had made many such promises in her existence. In one time-thread, she _had_ killed him. But this time, it felt instantly wrong. The words turned sour in her mouth, constricting her throat, and several aspects suggested retracting them.

Connor looked at her, shocked. Lorne's gaze was sad, almost disappointed. She spun and left the office, forcing herself not to walk too quickly.

It wasn't a retreat; she never retreated.

--------

Marc left the building that housed the office of his student adviser with considerable relief. He had finally put in a formal request to change the topic of his honours thesis, and his professor had wished for a private discussion so Marc could elaborate on his decision.

Professor Gao was a good sort, an amiable man who was popular as a student adviser within the religious studies programme; he was well known for being supportive of his students. But even he had grown hesitant when Marc announced that he wanted to change the subject of his thesis to major figures of ancient demonology.

The young student imagined that other than the biology departments, the religious studies department had been most shaken by the revelations of just a couple of months ago. To learn that gods, magic, demons and more, were all _real_... some of the professors and graduate students didn't seem to know whether to dance in the hallways, or hide under their desks. It made Marc smirk, to think of the students who considered comparative religion to be a joke degree.

After a long talk in Gao's office, though, the man had relented, acknowledging that now more than ever proper research was needed into this newly revealed-aspect of the world. In fact, Marc suspected he was rather pleased with Marc's boldness, but was also worried about inertia and prejudice within the department. Still, it was Marc's decision, and generally an academically sound one.

Hopefully Connor and Illyria would think so.

He doubted it would go over so well with Connor that Illyria was a central theme to his thesis. Technically, it wasn't _about_ her, just the Ancients in general, but she certainly played a major part. After all, she was the major figure featured in any of the records which survived from that time period. He couldn't ignore her. It didn't hurt that she was willing to share – and share, and share – her experiences from the time. How many researchers had an opportunity like this? Would a historian pass up a chance to interview Abraham Lincoln?

Well, okay... in Illyria's case, perhaps not so much Lincoln as Julius Caesar or Napoleon... or Attila the Hun. Come to think of it, she'd probably be more annoyed that his thesis _wasn't_ solely about her.

Done classes for the day, Marc wandered through the grassy area between the campus buildings, unrushed in his walk toward the nearby bus stop. It was a warm, sunny Tuesday afternoon, and the university gardeners were out, taking care of the campus grounds. The smell of fresh-cut grass filled the air, along with recently turned earth and wood chips, the scents winding their way between the distinguished stone buildings of the campus.

The country and the world hadn't gone to Hell yet, figuratively or literally. Except for certain exceptions – certain blonde, female, racist exceptions – the young man had to admit that so far, life was looking pretty good.

It was with those good spirits that Marc greeted Aidan Keeling as the other student jogged up behind him on the path, his own knapsack slung over his shoulder, slowing to walk beside the other man.

Aidan was one of those students who wasn't really in university to accomplish anything. Cruising through school on cheaper tuition and subsidies from his professor father, he mostly treated it as a clever means of putting off getting a real job and being forced to move out into the world. It annoyed Marc slightly; but the tall, athletic man was popular and personable, and despite his attitude he wasn't stupid, possessing a real facility for languages. Aidan was a good type to party or study-group with, so long as it wasn't exam crunch-time.

"Just got out of a meeting with Gao?" Aidan remarked as way of introduction.

Off to the side, a grounds keeper with a hose was spraying a tall, leafy bush, creating a rainbow in the air and making the plant seem to be trimmed in diamonds. Briefly, Marc wondered whether the man had heard that watering plants in bright sunlight could be harmful to them. "Yeah, he just wanted to sort out my honours thesis topic," he replied absently.

Aidan strove to capture his attention. "So you've changed your thesis topic over to the ancient demons?"

Marc raised an eyebrow, surprised. Interesting, how quickly word spread. "It was always about them, really. I just wasn't approaching the subject as directly."

Aidan laughed. "Yeah, a couple of months ago the profs would have trashed it as fantasy, wouldn't they? It's a brave new world."

Brave... and yet more fearful and intolerant than ever. "Yeah."

Aidan took Marc's elbow and pulled him off the path, to the shade of one of the nearby trees. Marc followed along, curious, as the other man looked around, checking for other people close by. Then Aidan leaned in, speaking in secretive tones.

"How would you like to meet one?"

Marc's eyebrows flew into his hair. "Wh... What?"

"Shh!" Aidan looked around again. "I mean it, man. Do you want to talk to an Old One?"

"Who? How?" Could he know about Illyria?

"You know my old man's a prof in the history department. Eighty years ago they got a statue shipped over from a dig in Istanbul from Yildiz University. The university was small back then, and nobody knew what to make of it, so it pretty much got stuffed into a warehouse and forgotten about. I saw it when I was helping my father move some stuff."

"So?"

"So me and Tucker figured it out, man. There was a book Professor Sloane got that talks about raising an Ancient from 'stone sleep'. They thought it was typical primitive mysticism crap. Except we all know it ain't crap anymore, right? I flipped through it and recognized the statue."

Aidan reached into the binder tucked under his other arm and pulled out a thin sheaf of stapled papers, handing it to Marc. The very first page showed a primitive, hand-drawn illustration of a figure, a strange mix of gargoyle and bipedal bull. There was no scale, but the legs were small and cloven, topped by an incongruously thick chest and arms. A bull-like head, complete with long, sharp horns, jutted out between the massive shoulders.

"This is a photocopy."

"Duh. You think I'd steal a book thousands of years old from the university in my backpack or something? That's not exactly low-profile. I'm not out to commit any crimes here."

"What's involved in this?"

"Well, we get together, and I read off the ritual from the paper there. Then the One One wakes up, and I dunno, we talk to him, take him out for a night on the town or something."

"Aidan, the Ancients weren't famous for their good citizenship, are you sure-"

"Relax, the ritual has a clause for putting him back to sleep. If he gets rowdy, it's nighty-night."

Marc rubbed the papers between his fingers and thumbs worriedly. It was too tidy. And the Ancients were bad news, even Illyria had admitted that.

"So, you need me for a magic circle or something? Not blood sacrifice, I hope."

Aidan thought he was joking. Smiling, surprised that Marc would know that much about mystic procedures, he assured, "No, the ritual only takes one person."

"So why me?"

"Dude, the fact that you're taking this seriously is cool enough. But your thesis is all about these people, and you seem to know more than most about this stuff, so I thought I'd let you in."

"Uh, thanks. Who else do you have?"

"Well, Tucker, obviously. Jeff, Mike, and Trevor. And you, hopefully."

Wonderful. So Marc was being invited into an illustrious group which included an irresponsible student, a pothead, two frat boys, and a guy who spent the majority of his waking life playing Magic or Dungeons and Dragons. He would have been insulted, except the harsh truth was he'd probably fit right in.

"So, you in?"

"Uh-" Marc fumbled for excuses. "I've got a lot of stuff on the go right now. Let me think about it."

"Alright, but don't take too long. I'm hoping to give this a go on the weekend. It should be fun, even if it doesn't work."

Fun. Right. "Okay, I... uh... I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Sure thing, catch you later." Flashing his charming smile, Aidan hitched his knapsack further up his shoulder and turned the opposite way down the path, one arm raised to wave as he walked away.

Marc watched him leave, and then looked down at the papers he held... at the illustration of the creature, and the strange lettering beneath. An Ancient. Like Illyria. Except this one wouldn't be power-drained, and wouldn't be contained by Wolfram and Hart. He rolled up the papers and quickly stuffed them into his bag. So much for a quiet week.

Marc dashed toward the bus stop.

--------

Lorne sat in the Hyperion's main office, nursing a Sea Breeze, the papers detailing his investment portfolio spread, forgotten, across the desk in front of him. There wasn't much he had to look at, really; all his stocks were doing rather well. The skills he used to evaluate people worked just as well on CEOs, and he could pick out the companies worth long-term investment.

The skills he used to evaluate most people, that is. Certain people defied his passive senses; certain blue, egomaniacal people.

Both Lorne and Connor had been stepping carefully around the hotel the past three days. It almost seemed as if Illyria was doing the same. She rarely spoke to them, marching past without word whenever she would leave the hotel for one of her jaunts around the city. The rest of the time was spent either in her room or out in the Hyperion's courtyard.

Something was going on with their little blue goddess. She was on the edge of something, and perhaps even she didn't know what. Connor was worried. Lorne should try to talk to her, but the green singer didn't trust his own reaction.

He didn't blame Illyria for killing Fred; she was just trying to survive, Knox had chosen the target. She'd never felt sorry for what she did, but likewise she'd never revelled in it, never drew pleasure from the wreckage left behind.

It had hurt, though, seeing her imitating his friend, tricking the Burkles like that. He had heard from Wesley that she could do so, but had never personally witnessed it. The quality of her acting had been unbelievable; if he closed his eyes, his fellow Pylean refugee was alive again. When he opened them, when that cold, ruthless voice spoke again, it was if she'd died a second time.

For a brief moment, he had hated her.

"Oh no! More paperwork?"

Lorne looked up at Connor as the young man entered the Hyperion's office. The boy looked tired and haggard, probably due to stress balancing his university courses and the internship at the hospital, but the green demon was sure that Illyria's odd behaviour was also part of it.

"Just my stocks," he replied. "Even dimensional immigrants need a retirement fund. And speaking of which, here."

Connor raised an eyebrow as Lorne pulled a cheque out of the stack of papers and handed it to him. "What's this for?"

"Rent."

"Lorne, you're a friend, you don't have to-"

The singer silenced the boy with a hand. "I have to contribute somehow, kiddo," he replied. "I don't know why Angel left you the Hyperion, but I'm glad he did. You've been great. Trust me, I know the value of sanctuary. But this place has an electric bill just like anyplace else."

"Da- Uh, Angel, left me some cash along with the hotel, and it's not like there's a lot of people here. I can keep this place going for a while."

"Then put it on your student loans. Trust me, I'm not hurting. I know I don't look it, but I've always been a little bit of a Scrooge, and Wolfram and Hart paid its employees well," he said with irony.

Connor reluctantly stuffed the cheque into his pocket. "You've been helping with Illyria."

Lorne snorted as he sipped his drink. "I don't think avoiding her counts as helping."

"Did she act like this at Wolfram and Hart?"

Lorne sighed. "I don't know. Wesley was the only one who really knew our little princess."

"Then what can we do?"

"I have no idea. I think all we really can do is wait for her to tell us what's bothering her." He smiled lopsidedly at Connor. "Take it from a former bartender... Keep an open ear and some hard liquor handy, and eventually all secrets will come out."

Connor sat down in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk, looking sullen. Again, Lorne was struck with the strangest feeling of familiarity, that he should _know_ this kid better than he did. It happened rather often when Connor was around.

Trying to change the subject, the demon inquired, "How goes the job at the hospital?"

Connor blinked, and then managed a half-smile. "It's okay. Mostly pushing paper, fetching files... fetching coffee. But it'll look good when I go for my residency in a couple of years, and I do get some cash out of it." He smirked roguishly. "And there's this one nurse-"

The sound of the front door opening made both of them turn their heads. Standing, they went out into the lobby, both wondering if it was Illyria.

It was not the blue demoness; instead, Marc stood just inside the entrance.

Marc looked at the two of them. His brow was wrinkled with worry. "I think we have a problem."


	9. Searching

Sitting in her room, Illyria was wondering whether she had selected the proper course of action.

She sat upon the bed within the rose-painted room, which had been the shell's, which she had claimed as her own. Other than her breathing, she was motionless, and had an observer come along they might have thought she had fallen asleep sitting up. But the impression was deceptive; though outwardly she was sedate, at peace, within her mind roiled like a angry sea.

Despite her demonic nature, Illyria despised chaos. She had been called the Essence of Rule, and the foremost component of rule was order. _Her_ order, her law, imposed upon all things, and the peace of the grave for those that resisted. Chaos could only be a means to an end, a distasteful tool, a weapon wielded against those who resisted your order. She had been the greatest of the Old Ones, and her law had dominated the world. Her mastery extended over time itself, defying even entropy.

Yet now chaos dogged her at every turn. Like a pack of wolves, it sensed her weakness, her pain, snapped at her heels as she fled and waited for her to trip so that it might pounce and consume her.

And she was going to lose – she had begun to realize this. The will of the universe was indomitable. If it could not have her all at once, it would take her a piece at a time. One by one it had taken them: her kingdom, her followers, her power, her guide, her comrades, her pride.

Her sanity.

_The entropy of the universe is constantly increasing. All things tend toward chaos._

Odd, how well the shell had understood this. Did this make Winifred Burkle wiser than Illyria?

One aspect suggested that she go downstairs and speak to Lorne and Connor. They were worried for her; their concern was obvious, and neither male was a particularly skilled liar. It should have made no difference to her, but for some reason she was reluctant to expose herself to them.

After imitating Winifred Burkle, she'd seen the anger and disappointment on Lorne's face, the shock on Connor's. She should have just told them about the girl, but she did not. They would have considered it a deception; or worse, a delusion. She could not endure more of their pity.

There was a knock on the door to her room, causing her to open her eyes. At least she was permitted that much dignity. "You may enter."

The door swung open to reveal Lorne. He did not enter, but instead remained at the threshold to the room. "Uh... could you come downstairs for a few minutes? We've got something we'd like you to lay your eyes on."

"Very well."

She followed him in silence to the lobby, where Marc and Connor waited at the reception desk. Both looked up as she descended the stairs, and she immediately made note of their serious expressions. The air was heavy with the subtle perfume of human fright.

There was an array of papers scattered on the desk, and the god-king was curious despite herself. "You sought my presence."

Marc looked nervous; Connor merely handed her one of the sheets. "What do you make of this?"

All the aspects of her self halted their tasks and stood, frozen in shock, as her eyes took in the contents of the page. The lines and gentle curves drawn upon the paper were beautiful and familiar to her, even when reproduced so obscenely upon a product of human industry.

Illyria looked up sharply. "Where did you find this?" she demanded.

"A classmate gave it to me," Marc replied, her attention snapping to him.

"This is an awakening ritual, written in the tongue of my people."

"Gah," he moaned. "I was hoping you'd tell us it was poetry or a shopping list or something."

"It _is_ poetry, but a form used for awakening a being dedicated to an extended mystical sleep."

Connor presented another page. "A being like this?"

In an unconsciously human gesture, her eyebrows rose as she regarded the illustration. "Or'saa."

"You know it?"

"Yes. I knew of him before I was consigned to the Deeper Well." Her analytical mind made an extrapolation, and she fixed a narrow glare upon Angel's son. "You have not said so, but I presume his revival is an imminent threat."

"Some friends of Marc have the statue and the ritual, and are planning on waking him up."

"Hey, not exactly friends of mine-"

"That would be extremely unwise," she commented, voice tight.

"Is he dangerous?" Connor asked.

"In my time, no. He was not especially strong, and particularly unintelligent. He was subject to much mockery. I am impressed that he was able to gather the resources to arrange this kind of life-extension." She cocked her head as she considered. "He probably had help. Some felt pity for him, or perhaps it was merely done for their amusement."

"Great," Lorne commented from the side. "An ancient demon with self-esteem issues from being picked on as a kid."

"It this as much of a problem as I thought it was, then?" Marc asked. "I mean, if this guy is weak..."

Lorne raised a sculpted steel-grey eyebrow. "She means weak and stupid compared to other Ancients, kiddo."

"I could not defeat him in my current state," Illyria confirmed.

"Oh." Marc blinked. "That's bad."

"It is. When he awakes, and realizes he is no longer the weakest, but perhaps one of the strongest, he will undoubtedly begin his own war of conquest."

"Aidan said that the ritual included some kind of restraint, a means of putting him back to sleep if he acted up..."

"It does. But it will not work."

"Then why include it in the ritual in the first place?"

"Because it encourages fools such as your classmate!" she exploded. "Tiny insects, awed by their webs of silk!"

She looked down at the picture, abruptly subdued. "It will not be enough to hold back this beast."

"Okay, so what do we do about it?" Lorne asked.

Her face twisted in contempt. "He will be strong, but I do not think he will last long against the human armies. It may be best to let these cretins execute their plan, and reap their deserved harvest."

"Illyria-" Connor began.

"Spare me your sermon!" she growled. She turned her head, not looking at them. "It was merely a suggestion."

There was a long silence, during which Illyria considered the problem from multiple angles. All her aspects agreed on one thing. "The most advisable course of action is to prevent the awakening ritual from being completed," she said. "The most expedient means is to kill the group leader, however," she spoke over Connor and Marc opening their mouths to protest, "this does not prevent others from doing so. Thus we must either destroy the ritual tome or Or'saa's statue."

"He's already made copies of the ritual," Marc pointed out.

"Then the statue must be our target."

"Did he show it to you?" Connor questioned his friend.

"No, just the ritual papers. He said he knew where the statue was, though, and that the university had had it for a while now."

"We must determine its location," Illyria said unnecessarily.

"Maybe I can get him to show it to me," Marc said, though his expression was doubtful.

"Hopefully," said Connor. "But we shouldn't count on it. I'll talk to Aidan's profs, see if they remember where it is. We can visit the campus and check the galleries."

"My green is too sexy for the world at the moment... I'll work the telephone, see if I can find out anything," Lorne put in.

Illyria observed the group with interest. "I will also assist."

It was interesting, how much more Connor looked like Angel when his face lost all colour. She observed the change with mild curiosity.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," he said.

"Why not?" she questioned, annoyed. "Marc will be required to remain near Aidan. Unless he is forthcoming with the location, a search will be necessary, and your time will be partially consumed by your employment."

"Who do you plan to kill or torture?" Marc asked. He wilted under her return glare.

"I am familiar with the layout of the UCLA campus, in particular the history department." She avoided elaborating on how she possessed this knowledge. "I am as capable of interacting with the humans there as any of you. I will take the task of questioning Aidan's professors."

There was a long pause, the three men regarding her carefully. She could nearly see Lorne's worry, the chill of his doubts drifting off him toward the floor. Marc had no real investment in the decision, and would not defy her to her face in any event. She met and held Connor's gaze, the young man's thoughts hidden behind a speculative mask. He reminded her so much of his father.

"No offence, Leery, but I don't think-"

"Okay... if you think you can handle it." Connor overrode the green demon.

Both Lorne and Marc looked at the other man in surprise. "Connor, are you sure?" Lorne asked.

"She says she can handle it, so I think she can," he replied, never taking her eyes from her. His lips turned up into a slight smile, and the demoness felt oddly pleased by this show of support. "We should show a little faith in her."

"Alright," Lorne sighed. "Hopefully the university will still be standing by this time tomorrow."

--------

As anticipated, Aidan was not willing to show Marc the statue, no matter how much the young man attempted to charm his fellow student. He let it slip that he had a key to a storehouse that he should not have, but didn't reveal the location of the storage area. And, unfortunately, a university as large as UCLA had many places to keep such things, on the campus and without.

So, as expected, Marc was keeping close to Aidan, Connor was stuck at work, and Lorne, posing as a researcher from another institution, was making calls to the university to locate a "rare, old statue". Illyria was visiting the professors personally, carrying a sheet of paper with nothing but an enlargement of the drawing of the statue from Marc's ritual papers.

She found the entire exercise foolish; given five minutes with Aidan, the demoness would know where the idol was located – along with anything else she cared to ask. Yet the three mortals quailed at such a suggestion, bound as they were by morality. It was irritating.

But, she would assist, because she had nothing better to do. She was patient; perhaps she would eventually begin to have some positive influence on Connor.

Clad in her Burkle appearance, Illyria navigated the buildings and hallways of the UCLA campus without issue. Her armour had dutifully reshaped itself into the image of jeans and a red long-sleeve shirt; with her brown hair tied back, the Ancient drew no more notice than any graduate student, beyond the appreciative stares of the human males roaming the grounds. She navigated the campus easily, the memories of the shell – summoned voluntarily this time – letting her know everything she needed of the layout.

She'd already visited the main office of the History department. There, a middle-aged human of decidedly indeterminable gender had sorely tested Illyria's restraint, while being most unhelpful. Persistence had won out, though, and the demoness now had a printed list of the professors in the faculty who might have some knowledge of ancient relics gained by the university soon after its inception.

And the receptionist had been permitted to keep her life. She may not know that she had been granted such a boon, but it made it no less a gift in Illyria's eyes.

The first professor had been aged, but friendly to her in a way perhaps more suitable for one of his students. He had known nothing about the statue, and she had walked away without even the courtesy of a thank-you. The second academic had been more business-like, briefly looking at her illustration and declaring that he didn't recognize it with a terseness that she appreciated.

The third person on her list had an office in a different building. The shortest path there was a short-cut through one of the physics buildings, her memories told her. With unhurried efficiency, she walked up the steps of the stone building which held part of the physics department, passing through the wide glass doors of the entrance.

The building was like many of the others, built during the early seventies, and no one had seen fit to update the decor since then. Simple orange tile produced little sound beneath her simulated running shoes, and the hallway walls were painted a smooth, yellowish tint. The halls were illuminated brightly by many florescent lights embedded in the ceiling, making the colours stand out almost garishly. She passed numerous wooden doors with frosted glass windows, many of which contained occupied labs.

She met few others in the hallways of the building; most were involved in the labs, and the building seemed to hum with a restless industry. Illyria found herself slowing her pace. Her sharp hearing could detect numerous subdued conversations, and the rumble of machinery several floors below her. Normally such an edifice would offend the Ancient, with its unnatural colours and scents and materials. But, like the library, Illyria found this place possessed a solemnity, a subtle undercurrent of intelligence and thought that appealed to her.

She came to a halt as she passed in front of one door, the glass darkened, indicating the room on the other side was unoccupied. Though she would never admit to following a 'lark', she had no real reason for opening the unlocked door and stepping inside, other than she simply wished to. The door opened with a click and a whisper.

It was a lab, like the others; large, solid tables were arranged in a grid in the space, facing the wider table which occupied the front near the chalkboard. The black tops of all the tables bore the scars of decades of experimentation, of fire and chemicals and scraping instrumentation. Wooden cupboards lined the walls, and on top rested equipment of every type, which Illyria found she could identify with little effort – calorimeters, sonometers, potentiometers, and more; alien, human apparatus which the Ancient knew she could describe and use, had she any reason to do so.

Indirect sunlight poured into the room from the windows along the far wall, casting long lines of shadow within the lab and tinting everything in a slight shade of blue. The air was clean and clear, with only the slightest taint of propane and human sweat detectable to her fine senses, and the familiar scent of the aged books which lined the shelves above the cabinets.

She should have been alarmed by the strange flavour of her own thoughts; unlike the labs at Wolfram and Hart, this room had a pleasant, welcoming feel. Though it was inferior in every way to the resources available at the demonic law firm, it lent her a feeling of familiarity, of safety, with a faint undertone of eagerness. She was possessed with the strangest urge to grab some chalk and start scribbling on the board.

_This should have been mine._

Not an entirely unusual thought for the former paragon of conquest. But Illyria found she wasn't sure of her own meaning, as the words passed through her consciousness. Did she mean the lab itself, or all of it in the general sense?

She shook her head in an oddly ordinary gesture, even though there were no humans here to be fooled. She deliberately allowed her attention to be drawn toward a large metal tank located near the front of the lab, on a large bench near the chalkboard. It was large, constructed of shining stainless steel, with a thick glass porthole placed in the front.

It was a laser chamber, she realized, though she had no reason to know this. Her fingers ran over the smooth metal exterior, and for a moment she was fascinated by the chamber, that this seemingly frail human construct could contain energies that rivalled the sun.

Of course, it probably wasn't all that powerful a laser, she mused; perhaps a small-scale pumped carbon dioxide medium, though not more than a few watts to be found in an undergraduate lab. Formulae leaped to mind unbidden; _excited CO2 will produce a lambda of ten-point-six micrometres..._

"It's neat, ain't it?" came a high-pitched voice from beside her.

The majority of Illyria couldn't believe her good fortune, even as the rest reacted instantly. One entire thread of her consciousness had been waiting for this, devoted entirely to anticipating when the girl would next appear. With the speed and grace of a striking snake, she snatched the child by the shoulder. The other hand grabbed a fistful of shirt, and the slender body was lifted and slammed against the nearby wall, the child releasing a satisfying yelp of fright.

Finally, she had her! The Ancient could not repress an feral grin of satisfaction. "Now you pay for your arrogance," the taller woman hissed, her face close to the child's own. "I will have answers!"

She had not shifted back to her blue form, and so brown eyes met brown. The girl looked little different from their previous encounters; the same blue jeans, sneakers, and powder blue shirt. Instead of a braid, her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail that resembled Illyria's own. She struggled futilely against the demon's hold; although her face held fear, it was not the kind of terror Illyria expected or desired. And though she squeezed the girl's shoulder with enough force to grind human bone to powder, the flesh did not yield, and she did not appear overly distressed.

"Leggo!"

"Cease this act! I know you have been influencing me!" the Ancient snarled. She spat her questions, rapid-fire, as if the girl might disappear at any moment. "What magics do you assail me with? Do you think to capitalize upon the lessening of my power by the humans?"

"Ow!"

"Are you of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart? Seeking somehow to subjugate she who was their better?"

"Hey!"

"Do you serve another? Answer me, vermin!"

"Let me go!"

She slammed the girl against the wall once more, her ire mounting, her voice becoming furious and desperate. "_What have you done to me?!_"

Abruptly, the child ceased her struggles and her protests. She looked up at Illyria, and all fear melted away, to be replaced with profound sadness and disappointment.

Drained or not, Illyria was still one of the more powerful beings on this plane of existence. Apparently the little girl didn't know this, however, or perhaps she just didn't care; one sneakered foot came up to rest against the demoness' stomach, and shoved, sending the former god stumbling backwards to land on her rump in a very un-deity-like manner.

The girl, released from her grip, fell to the floor in a similar position. "Why do you have to be so mean? I didn't do anything to you!"

"_You will not enslave me!_" Spittle flew from Illyria's lips as she levered herself to her feet. She was so angry her vision began to blur; thoughts of interrogation fled, and all she wanted was to tear the girl apart.

"You miss him, don't ya?" A complete non-sequitur, but effective. Illyria froze, the child's words piercing the red veil of her rage. "He's gone, and you can't bring him back. You're not used to giving anything up. Now you're stuck... you can't go forward, an' you can't go back. A normal person would've started to let go by now, started to feel better... but you hold on, even when it's hurtin' you."

The words were far too perceptive and wise to believably come from one seemingly so young. A feeling of helplessness washed over the demon woman, and as she watched the girl, she saw no anger, no contempt. The small being looked back from her position on the floor, her dark eyes containing sadness and sympathy. Not even pity, which would have angered Illyria further, but a deep understanding and empathy which belied the child's apparent age.

"Fightin' me won't bring him back. It won't make you feel better, neither."

The Ancient's arms felt leaden; her very body weighed down with a bottomless fatigue. Her eyes burned, and her belly felt hollow – all the hate and rage she could generate drained into its depths. She could only guess that her opponent was responsible somehow.

"Why do you do this to me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The child had no problems hearing her. She answered in an intimate tone, her high voice sounding very similar to the comforting but deceived assurances from Trish Burkle. "I'm not hurtin' you. You're hurtin' yourself."

There was more, Illyria could tell; there were hidden depths to those words. The girl spoke in riddles, but she spoke, and the demoness had a desperate urge to _know_ everything she would tell her.

Just then, the door to the lab opened, and a pudgy, bald-headed man walked in. At the sight of the woman, he scowled from behind his glasses. "Hey, this room is reserved. I've got a class coming in here in ten minutes."

Reflexively, Illyria glanced at the man... and then realized her mistake. When she looked forward, the girl had disappeared once again. Her anger returned, in spades; the demoness' sound of frustration was something between a whine and a snarl.

"Uh... I'll come back later," the man hurriedly stated, backing out of the room.

A moment after he closed the door, a fire extinguisher – which moments before had been hanging on the wall near Illyria – burst through the drywall near his head, spraying him with white dust and bits of yellowish paint. The startled scientist stared at the red cylinder jutting from the wall for a moment, before fleeing as fast as his legs could carry him.

Alone once again in the lab, Illyria quivered with rage. She had the unshakable feeling that she'd been close to something; whether the girl was going to reveal her master or her motivations, she didn't know. But now she was denied.

She had no desire to speak to any more humans today. She no longer cared about Marc's idiotic classmates and their desire to awaken a creature that would undoubtedly kill them. Turning, she left the lab, nearly parting the doorknob from the door, and returned the way she had came. Heads poked out from the other rooms at the sound of the disturbance, but she ignored them.

Her mood barely abated during the long walk back to the Hyperion; meek Burkle appearance or not, the Old One radiated fury, and the other humans parted widely around her on the sidewalk in instinctive self-preservation. As soon as she walked in the doors she threw off her human appearance like a cloak; she stalked over to the settee and, defying her normal habits, sat upon it rather than standing rigidly at attention.

Half an hour after her arrival, Lorne ventured out of the office, surprised to see her. He made some small attempts at conversation, which she ignored; eventually, he just shrugged his shoulders and returned to the office.

She replayed the encounter over and over in her mind, searching for some detail, some nuance she had missed. Illyria was sure that she was unknowingly involved in some larger scheme, a piece in some game played by shadowed figures. The demoness was certain the girl had a master, someone certainly powerful, to be opposing her in this way.

Eventually Marc arrived at the hotel, having not been able to justifiably follow Aidan home. He merely nodded at the blue woman, walking briskly by to join Lorne.

It had worried her, that the girl would be so easily able to read her emotional state. How private, then, was her mind? Her thoughts? No... the girl had not anticipated Illyria's attack, therefore the demoness was free to plan and plot within herself. And was it not easy to predict a reaction when one was influencing the outcome?

She was still musing over these thoughts when Connor arrived an hour later. The young man nodded his head at her, tossing his knapsack onto the couch beside her, looking as dishevelled as ever in his un-tucked red t-shirt and jeans. One aspect, apparently lacking anything better to do, wondered how his attire was tolerated at his workplace. Fortunately, the demon queen easily repressed the urge to critique a young human male on his unprofessional fashion sense.

At the sound of Connor's arrival, Marc and Lorne emerged into the lobby. "Any luck?" questioned the vampire's son.

Marc shook his head. "Aidan didn't reveal anything, and I don't think he will until the last minute. He's playing this off as some kind of game."

"Lorne?"

"Big zippo, I'm afraid. I called around the university and their galleries and museums, none had any clue what I was talking about. I think I'd have an easier time tracking down an urn of Osiris. At least then there'd be eBay."

He turned to the blue woman, who seemed distracted. "Illy-"

"I learned nothing!" she snarled. "It was within my grasp, and then was lost!"

There was a general raising of brows around the room. "Uh... sure."

Connor sighed. "Okay, this thing's been forgotten too long. If Aidan isn't willing to show anybody where he's keeping it until the last minute, then I don't see many other ways of getting to it." He looked meaningfully at the other young man.

"Oh, no," muttered Marc.

--------

"Hey, hey! Hey, Aidan!"

"Oh, hey. 'Sup?"

"We still on for Friday night?"

"So far. Are you?"

"Yeah... I... uh... finished up some other stuff early."

"So you're in?"

"Of course. A chance to talk to an Old One? How could I pass that up?"


	10. Awoken

The plan, such as it was, was a simple one: Marc would accompany Aidan and his group to where-ever the statue was kept. As soon as he arrived, he would call the hotel from his cellphone with his location. Connor and Illyria would make haste to the place, arriving before the ritual could be completed.

One smashed statue later, if Aidan and his cronies truly wished to speak with an Ancient, they could try to charm what was likely going to be an irritated and intolerant Illyria.

Marc bemoaned the loss of his Friday night; he also found the remaining two days to be indescribably long, waiting for his date with a potential unstoppable killer. He was only shut up by Illyria snapping at him that she and Connor were the ones expected to do the true hard work, after racing across the city to find him, not to mention potential battle with Or'saa if the demon was awoken. If they could await their duties without pointless comment, so could he.

No matter what Marc claimed in his whining, though, time did march on, and Friday arrived much sooner than any of them wished. And thus Marc found himself jammed into the back of Aidan's Ford Taurus, on a Friday night, with five other idiots. He was mashed against the passenger side door, which might not have been so bad, had Tucker's hygiene not been so questionable.

The young hybrid wondered if Mike was suffering as badly on the other side.

Thankfully, he was able to keep the window rolled down, and he watched in silence as the streets of the city rolled by. He kept careful attention to the path Aidan was taking, making sure he knew where he was. Thankfully, the other student wasn't pulling anything like an obscure path, or trying to confuse them. It was a straight and simple path, and Marc knew where he was at all times – he just didn't know where they were going. He hoped it wouldn't be a long drive, considering Illyria and Connor needed to follow quickly once he let them know the destination.

They drove in relative silence for fifteen minutes, but Aidan wasn't inclined to drive fast in his father's car, and they ran into a few red lights. Marc had a hard time estimating driving times – he didn't even have his own license, to be honest. There seemed little need when he and Theresa used to go everywhere together, and she already owned a car.

"Here we are," Aidan announced. The car slowed, gliding smoothly to a stop next to a large brick building located next to a small park. With a click, he turned off the engine, pulling out the keys and popping open the driver's door.

On the other side of the back seat from Marc, Mike wasted no time hopping out. Apparently he hadn't enjoyed the minutes being pressed against Tucker, either. Marc smirked as he opened his own door.

His eyes widened in surprise as he stepped out of the car, recognizing where they were. It was an art supply store, located just a couple of blocks away from UCLA's main grounds. It was not the store that Aidan led them to, however; the man walked to the entrance next door, a simple wooden door protected with iron mesh. The brick above was faded, indicating that a large sign had once occupied the space over the door for many years, but had been recently removed. Aidan struggled with the neglected lock a bit, but eventually it swung open. Nervously, Marc followed Aidan in, the other student reaching beside him to flick on the lights.

Marc and the others had assumed that they would be looking for a museum storage area or a warehouse, and this certainly was not. Rather, it appeared to have once been an art studio, or perhaps a classroom. It was a single room, long and narrow, with no furniture to be found. A few paintings decorated the simple beige-painted walls, and thin grey carpeting softened the concrete floor. The room had a quiet, respectful air to it; the hung ceiling absorbed the little noise of their entrance, and there was surprisingly little dust to be found, despite the feeling Marc had that the place was rarely bothered by people.

In recognition of modern crime, the few windows were protected by iron bars – though the front door would have been so easy to get through, even had the group _not_ had a key, that Marc didn't see the point. He assumed that the paintings were not worth much, and certainly no one would have been interested in trying to carry off one of the statues. Nearly a dozen of the large shapes littered the room's floor. All were covered in simple drop cloths, but even hidden under the sheets, the young hybrid could tell that most of the pieces of art were large and heavy, and would likely need half a dozen men to move.

Or'saa was somewhere in the room, underneath a cotton sheet. Marc shivered at the thought. He wondered how many other seemingly mundane pieces of carved stone in here held secrets like that. Or, Hell, around the world? How does an art curator deal with stuff like that? A Certificate of Authenticity, and a Certificate of Untainted By Unspeakable Evil?

Aidan walked boldly over to a piece that sat near the wall. He grabbed the sheet and pulled it away, and Marc finally laid eyes upon the object in question. Which, unfortunately, had no such certificates on display.

"Ladies, I give you: Or'saa the Ancient."

The statue was certainly big. It stood as tall as Trevor, though two feet of that was solid base. On top was the carved shape of a large bull, or perhaps something like a minotaur, with huge, gorilla-like arms which hung nearly to the statue's feet. The drawing in the ritual had made the head look more bovine than it really was, instead seeming more primate than anything else. Two long horns jutted out from the head, and Marc wondered how the thing had lasted so many millennia without one or both getting broken off. The statue itself didn't seem to be made from any particular material – just ordinary, fragile white marble.

Marc was drafted into helping push a few statues out of the way, and then it took all of them together to shove the large stone object into the centre of the cleared spot. They arranged into a semicircle around the statue.

"I thought he'd be bigger," commented Tucker, the obese man leaning on his knees, huffing from the effort, his already-greasy brown hair sticking to his temples.

"He's big enough," replied Mike. "Are you sure you'll be able to keep him under control?"

Aidan seemed irritated by the question. No wonder; Marc had been peppering him with it constantly for the past two days. "Yes. The ritual binds the creature into the enchanter's service. He'll do what I tell him to do, he won't have a choice in the matter."

_Ah, so now it comes out, _Marc thought. He wasn't particularly surprised, though he was disappointed. Aidan wanted a slave, although he tried to pass it off as simple curiosity or scientific interest.

He hated it when Illyria was right.

"How'd you find this thing?" Mike asked.

"I was with a crew dropping off that statue over there," Aidan replied, pointing at a smaller idol in the corner near the door. "We were slacking off, and I was just checking the place out. I saw it, and recognized it from the book the ritual was in." He shook his head. "It's been stuffed into this room for years. I'm not sure if the university even remembers where they put it. The book is just a recent find, too, and I think the last researcher to do any work on this was murdered a decade ago.

"Of course, none of us are supposed to be here. I snitched the key from the History department. That's why I had to keep this quiet, we'd be in serious trouble if anyone knew about us being here. But," he grinned, "once we're done here, they'll all be too excited to worry about little details like that."

Marc couldn't help but roll his eyes. That much was certainly true.

"So let's get cracking, shall we? Mike, grab the candles. Jeff, can you draw a proper circle with the salt?"

As the others began the process of setting up for the ritual, Marc quietly slid back toward the door and pulled out his cellphone. Four button presses, and the call was on its way to the hotel.

"Hello?"

"Lorne. It's Marc. Listen... Loam's Art Supply store, right near the campus. Connor knows where it is. Get them over here quick."

There was a pause as Lorne relayed the information. "Ten-Four. They're on their way."

"Marc!" He looked up at Aidan, who was looking at him suspiciously even as he hit 'End'. He tried not to look guilty as he slipped the cellphone back into his pocket; it may not matter now, but Aidan might try to do something stupid, like rush the ritual, if he thought authorities were on their way.

The other man narrowed his eyes at him, his hand poised over one of the candles he was lighting in a circle around the statue. "What are you doing?"

"Just... ordering pizza. My treat. No problem with that, is there?"

"Yeah! Pizza!" cheered Trevor from the side.

"Pizza?" Aidan stared at him incredulously. "We're about to revive a million-year-old demon, and you're ordering in _pizza_?"

"You were in such a rush to get over here, I didn't get a chance to eat! Doing magic _sucks_ on an empty stomach. Would you have preferred Chinese? I didn't think to ask, sorry."

If university had taught Marc anything, it was how to bullshit and bamboozle with the best. Those skills proved their worth now, as Aidan looked at him disbelievingly. Then the other man shook his head, returning his attention to the candles.

In short order, the salt circle was drawn, and the candles lit. The young men arrayed themselves in a circle around the idol, and Aidan reached into his pack to pull out the sheaf of papers which held the ritual.

"So, shall we get it on?" Aidan asked.

"Where's the cloaks?" Marc asked, trying to stall.

"Cloaks?"

"You know, the robes and the cowls and stuff."

"No cloaks. We don't need that. Let's just do this."

"No cloaks? What's up with that? Look, there's a costume shop just around the corner, how about I run over-"

"No! Jesus Christ, Marc!" Aidan exploded. "We don't need any damned cloaks!"

Marc couldn't help but be irritated in return. "Y'know, considering what you're doing here, maybe you want to keep Christ out of it. This doesn't strike me as the kind of thing he'd _go_ for."

"You know, you've been a ball and chain ever since you agreed to come along," Aidan snarled. "We've got the ritual, we've got the frigging restraining spell, what the hell is your problem?"

"I'm just not as _rushed_ as you are to wake this guy up. What's the big deal? If we're going to do this, shouldn't we do it right?"

"We'd never do it at _all_ if we follow you around! I invited you along because I thought it'd be cool to have you here, but you've done nothing but bitch! If our methods offend your sensibilities so much, leave!"

It was tempting. But... "No," Marc replied, resolute. "I said I'd see this through, and I will."

"Good," Aidan snapped. "So stand over there and shut up."

Marc barely kept his temper as he stepped out of the way. Maybe it was time to have Illyria and Connor teach him how to smack people around like they do. It wouldn't solve this problem, but it'd probably feel good.

As Aidan began to speak, coached through the old language with Tucker's help, Marc glanced nervously at the door, hoping Connor and Illyria wouldn't get stuck in traffic.

--------

Illyria opened the weapons cabinet in the Hyperion's lobby. Dismissing the numerous axes, she selected a claymore for herself – a long, heavy blade, nearly as tall as her vessel, which she hefted as easily as a twig. She plucked a broadsword from the rack as well, turning to hand it to Connor.

"If Or'saa awakes, you must be prepared," she advised. "He has a vulnerable spot – beneath his chin the flesh is not as thick, a strong sword may be able to pierce it. However, even he is not so dim as to expose this area carelessly. We will need to work in concert."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Hope is a placebo for the weak. Strength and cunning is what carries the day."

"See? That's the stuff you'll never find in a fortune cookie. I keep telling you, you should write this stuff down."

Illyria just tilted her head at him in silent tolerance of his humour. He grinned.

"You guys better get going," Lorne said from the side. "Want me to call a cab?"

"Won't be needed. I brought transport."

"Good," Illyria commented.

Connor raised his sword in salute to Lorne as he led them both out of the hotel. Illyria followed quietly as the young man moved out into the fading evening light, parts of her already calculating possible scenarios, considering courses of action should Or'saa be awake, or Marc's friends attempt to stop them.

She sincerely hoped they would. Whether she wished Or'saa awoken or not, whether the other Ancient would punish them or not, Aidan's idea that he could make a pet of even the weakest of her kind offended her greatly. Given the least excuse, she would destroy the fool.

Though she did not express it, it pained her that they may be forced to destroy Or'saa. Weak or not, he was of her time, her world, and they would understand each other better than Connor or Lorne could pretend to try. It was ludicrous, that she, the king, would be mourning the companionship of the jester, but that was the reality of it. She had a great deal of animosity for the humans forcing her to take such action, and the more she thought about it, the angrier she became, further example of the twisted ride of her emotions evident of late. At least anger was familiar.

No, Aidan would die tonight. The only question would be which Ancient got to him first.

"Hop on in," Connor said, catching her primary attention. Illyria looked in surprise at the "transport" he had shown her to, all other thoughts suddenly forgotten.

It was a small, blue Honda Civic hatchback. She had not been aware that Connor owned a car; and, looking at it, it was fairly obvious why he didn't rely on it as his normal means of transport. It had definitely seen better days – rust lined the edges of the metal, and the interior was sun-bleached and torn. The back seat was a permanent graveyard for fast-food boxes and wrappers, along with various other papers and debris. Although the colour was pleasing, the vehicle looked to the demoness like a tiny metal jar, and she had absolutely no desire to trap herself inside it.

Connor took her sword from her, stowing it and his own in the back of the vehicle. He opened the passenger side door for her, and then circled the Honda to get into the driver's seat. Just as he moved to sit, he noticed she was still standing a distance from the car.

"What? What's the problem?"

"I... assumed you possessed a motorcycle, as did Wesley."

"If I had a motorcycle, less of my Friday nights would be spent here." He had a quizzical look on his face, as if attempting to picture Illyria riding behind Wesley on a Harley. Sure, she had the leather...

"It may be better to walk."

"What? That'll take too long."

"Then we should take the bus."

"What?! We've got a car right here, Illyria."

"_We should take the bus!_" she snarled through clenched teeth.

"We can't take swords on the _bus_, Illyria, even if we had the time! Come-" He stopped suddenly, staring at the demoness as it all came together in his head. "You're claustrophobic!" he blurted.

One aspect reminded her to be thankful she could not blush. She graced him with a glare that could have melted iron, and he at least had the sense to look embarrassed for his blunt declaration.

He rushed to mollify her. "Relax, it's not a big deal. Here, this should help." Trotting around, he quickly rolled down the window, presenting the vehicle to her again as if it had turned into a golden chariot.

The difference was purely aesthetic as far as she was concerned, and she looked at the car dubiously.

Connor looked at her helplessly as she refused to move. "Look, I'm sorry to put you on the spot like this, but this really is the only option. I'll be in the car with you, there's nothing to be scared of."

Illyria wondered if he was trying to be reassuring, or was trying to goad her by questioning her courage. Regardless, she had no dignified way of backing out. "I fear nothing," she growled with bravado, sliding into the front seat of the vehicle with concealed trepidation. Connor closed the door with a click, and her hair did not stand on end, though it felt like it had.

Connor quickly rounded the vehicle and hopped into the driver's seat, the engine starting with an unhealthy high-pitched squeal. He clicked his seat belt into place – not bothering with the futile notion of attempting to get Illyria to fasten hers – and dropped the car into drive, accelerating away from the hotel.

The small vehicle proved nimble in negotiating the light traffic of the early night, and Connor's foot was heavy on the gas as he scooted around other vehicles and through at least one red light. As he drove, the demoness sat motionless in the passenger seat, carefully resisting any expression. She could feel his glances, and maintained a strong facade of calm, despite the fact that it felt as if the car was shrinking, squeezing her, and her breathing was short and rapid.

Hopefully he wouldn't notice that she'd crushed the inner door handle.

--------

Marc tried not to fidget. Aidan's chanting was getting faster, more intense, and the hybrid was getting very nervous. There couldn't be much time left. Where were Connor and Illyria?

He looked down at his own copy of the ritual paper. Notes were scrawled in pencil, snippets of translation and phonetic pronunciation that Marc had made with Illyria's assistance. She hadn't the patience to translate the entire paper for him – in fact, she seemed to find doing so offencive – but had supplied him with enough to get a general flow the ritual.

He attempted to match up Aidan's words with a location within the ritual. To Marc's dismay, he found that they were already well past the half-way point. He tried to follow along for a few stanzas, to get a feel for how fast they were going, and received another surprise: Aidan suddenly leaped over no less than two stanzas, skipping ahead in the procedure.

"What's going on?" he whispered harshly to Tucker beside him. "He's skipping pieces of the ritual!"

"Don't worry about it," the other man replied in a more conversational tone. "Me and Aidan looked the script over, there's a lot of flowery crap in there, 'Or'saa is so great', blah blah blah. You don't really need all of that, so we cut it out. Don't worry about it."

Marc decided he _would_ worry about it, thank you very much. Connor and Illyria would need every moment to get from the Hyperion to the warehouse, and if Aidan was taking unexpected shortcuts they might not get there in time.

Was it too much to hope that Tucker and Aidan had screwed up the translation somehow, so that it wouldn't work?

Just then, before Aidan even approached the end of the ritual, the entire room shivered at the sound of a deep, low groan, a basso note that seemed to come from everywhere. Marc looked at the statue, which was starting to crack like an egg, as if something was swelling from the inside.

"Aw, shit."

--------

Connor brought his car to a sudden stop in beside the storage building, turning off the engine and then hopping out to dash over to Illyria's side, opening the door for her just moments before she would have taken it off the hinges herself. Her normal imperialistic behaviour was forgotten for a moment, as she nearly jumped from the vehicle in her eagerness to escape its confines. If they'd had more time – and he wasn't fearful for the continued existence of his car – he would have laughed.

He resisted comment, popping open the back of the car, plucking out their swords and handing Illyria hers. He didn't bother closing the hatch; he had the keys, and if someone wanted to steal the candy wrappers or the broken radio, they were welcome to them.

He really needed a less crappy car. Maybe he should get a bike like Illyria wanted, though that wouldn't fly too well with his parents.

Angel's son moved quickly around toward the front of the building, and the demon queen fell into step behind. He led her to the main door to the storage area, though, in truth, she didn't need his guidance. She could feel the mystical force radiating from inside the building. It was familiar and comforting and terrifying all at once, and Illyria could sense that something terrible was happening, or had happened.

Connor indicated the door to the building to her, indicating she should go first, as they had agreed. Whether or not Aidan had relocked the door was a moot point, as Illyria impatiently tore it open with a pop, not even bothering to work the latch.

Six pairs of eyes snapped to her as she stepped into the room, all with varying degrees of surprise. One of those belonged to Marc, who was pressed against the wall beside her. His face held less surprise than fear.

Terrified of drawing attention to himself, he spoke in a whisper, as if conveying some great secret. "You're too late..."

That much was obvious.

Within the centre of the room, surrounded by the awestruck figures of the students, stood the hulking mass of an Old One. Neither the drawing nor the statue had in any way conveyed the true size of the demon; he stood over two metres tall, even hunched as he was, and had easily two and half metres between each of his enormous shoulders. Arms like thick tree trunks hung nearly to his knees, ended with clawed, three-fingered hands. The huge, round chest, which seemed to occupy more space than Connor's car, topped a pair of cloven, goat-like legs, which were incongruously small compared to the rest of the Ancient's massive body.

The head was nearly invisible from behind, hunched as it was between the shoulders, but a pair of thick horns were visible, jutting up and forward from the skull, twice the length of Illyria's arm and tipped with vicious points. And all over the body was skin the colour of slate, rough and mottled. The creature looked no less made of stone than he had when he was still a statue.

Had Illyria a heart as the humans thought of one, it would have been in her throat. Regardless, she stepped forward, speaking boldly. "Or'saa."

Or'saa turned his ponderous body, his large, horned head swivelling to regard the other Ancient. Glowing red eyes met frozen blue, and there was a silence as they recognized each other – not through primitive sight, but by extraordinary senses unique to the Old Ones.

"_Illyria_," the bull-like demon uttered, his voice slow and ponderous, like stone grinding on stone. He seemed to study her, and then he laughed, the sound of boulders rolling down a mountain.

The demoness recognized the challenge for what it was, baring her teeth and hissing. Or'saa didn't seem to care; he reached beside him and grabbed the fool Aidan, who had wandered too close to his supposed pet in confusion. Or'saa's thick, clawed hand wrapped around the young man's neck with ease, and he was picked clear off the ground, to be brandished between the two Ancients.

"Hey, what... you..." Aidan began to struggle and shriek, as he realized that the resurrected demon was very much _not_ restrained. He clawed at fingers that were as thick as his wrist.

Those fingers twitched, and there was a sickening crunch, and the young man went limp, his head twisted to an unnatural angle. The message was clear. _What puny shell have you chosen for yourself, God-King? They break so easily._

The demon queen cared not a whit for the life of the dimwitted young human, and did not allow herself to be baited. She lifted her sword, pointing it toward her former subject.

There would be no reasoning with him. She knew this. But she felt compelled to try. "The world you knew is gone, Or'saa. The little creatures rule this realm now. You are stronger than they, but they will gnaw you to the bone should you seek to war upon them. I grant you respect for your survival, but there is nothing for you here except suffering." She spoke to him as a queen would commend a favoured knight. "Return to your sleep, and await a better time, when the season has changed and the spring of the world comes again."

The irony of trying to convince another Ancient to return to rest was not lost on her. Nor was it more effective than Wesley's appeal had been. Or'saa laughed once more. Around her, Aidan's friends, still in horrified shock from his death, were beginning to feel their terror.

The attack, when it came, was not unexpected. Tossing Aidan's ruined body to the side, one black, stony fist rose into the air, and slammed into the floor as Illyria twisted aside of its path, shaking the room with the sound of a thunderclap.

A coup, then. Grimly, she granted Or'saa some admiration for seizing this opportunity. It was what she would have done.

She ducked under a backfist, which smashed into one of the other statues in the room, crushing it to bits and sending the pieces flying to batter the humans, who were screaming in fright. She ignored their bleating, surging inward to rocket a fist into Or'saa's face, attempting to stun him; anything to gain a critical split-second to plant her blade up into his throat.

It was an immensely strong hit, and it even succeeded in snapping Or'saa's stony head around and staggering him. But nothing else. He looked back at her, and again there was the low rumble of his laughter.

Then, before she could bring her sword into play, he struck back.

Either Or'saa was much stronger than she remembered, or Illyria was getting a true taste of how much power she had lost. His large arm impacted her entire torso, and the only thing which preserved her existence was her armour; the near-living garment hardened like steel a split second before impact, absorbing most of the blow. As it was, the former goddess was lifted from the ground and sent hurling over the heads of the surrounding humans, striking the near wall, smashing completely through the plaster and brick into the store next door. Her arc carried her through a glass counter and then onto the tiled floor, sliding and knocking heavy wooden shelves filled with art materials upon her, until she crashed into the wall on the opposite side.

The world went dark.


	11. By the Horns

Connor became very afraid when Or'saa struck down Illyria, swatting the powerful demon woman aside as if she was nothing more than a distraction. Before Angel's deal to give him a new life, he probably would never have admitted to being frightened. Now, though, he'd like to think he had a bit more common sense; seconds into the fight, and they were already down their strongest member – that was worth being scared over.

Or'saa moved to smash through the wall, to continue his attack upon his former monarch. Connor jumped in, swinging his sword, trying to buy Illyria time to recover – hoping she would recover at all. The blade skipped and bounced off the Ancient's stone hide, and had the sword not been one of Angel's few modern weapons, made from a tough carbon steel, it may very well have shattered from the impact. Regardless, it did what he wanted; Or'saa turned his attention to the boy, forgetting Illyria for the moment.

_Now what?_

He tried to manoeuvre into some position where he could bring the point of his weapon into the beast's throat; but the only place to do so was from right underneath Or'saa's head, in the deadly location between both of those massive, swinging arms. But that was where he had to be, and pacifist or not, Connor was no coward.

He swung at the large creature with his free hand, trying to not think about how much it reminded him of the Beast. Of all the fuzzy memories from his other life, those were some of the stronger, and he knew how badly he had lost those fights.

His fist bounced off the creature's face, sending a wave of pain up his arm; it was like punching a brick wall. The counterattack was powerful but slow, and Connor ducked under, bringing his foot up to smash against Or'saa's knee. He actually managed to hurt the beast, and it snarled, the low growl seeming to shake the very room.

There! From under the creature, Connor could see the seam between where the chin met the chest; he thrust with his sword. But Or'saa was not that simple; the blade glanced off the arm he curled under himself, and then he dropped like a wrestler, smashing a huge, grey elbow into the hard carpeted floor. Connor rolled aside barely in time to avoid being mashed into paste, jumping to his feet and leaping clear of the Ancient's reach.

The rest of Aidan's idiot squad had finally taken the hint and were trying to escape. One of them, Tucker, blundered too close to the creature; one stony arm swung, and there was the crunch of bones as the student ricocheted off to smash against the wall, leaving a bloody smear as he tumbled to the floor, still.

"_Oh Jesus oh Jesus oh Jesus_..." came a panicking voice from the corner, where one of the young men cowered. Connor had no attention to spare for him.

Space. He needed space. Or'saa could very nearly touch both sides of the room with his arms outstretched; the young man wouldn't be able to dodge a reach like that for long, and mobility was his only advantage. He certainly didn't want to take this fight out into the street, but he didn't have much choice. Leaping out of range of a swing, he quickly glanced around, noting thankfully that Marc had the sense to clear out quickly, along with the others of Aidan's group who had any proximity to the door.

He dodged another strike from the Ancient, a fist which struck the floor, shaking the building itself. Connor scored the wrist with his sword before it could be lifted away – it did no damage, but it irritated the bull demon.

"C'mon Ferdinand," he taunted, "why don't you and me take this outside?" Then he turned and dashed out the open door.

Or'saa followed; the demon was even wider than the large door, but it didn't matter, he _made_ room, exploding out of the building, sending brick and concrete flying to smash into nearby parked cars. Connor backed out into the wider area of the street, which, thankfully, was not especially busy at this time on a Friday night. As it was, several cars screeched to a halt or veered away desperately as the demon stomped his way into the street.

Aidan's car obstructed Or'saa's path, but not for long. The demon barely paid it mind as he caught it with one arm and flung it out of his path, the Taurus cartwheeling briefly through the air to come crashing down on top of a nearby jeep. Connor took a second to be glad he'd parked his own car around the corner.

Connor set his feet, ready to dodge. He could out-manoeuvre the big demon, maybe hopefully get him to over-commit and give him the opening he needed to slip the point of his sword into the throat. Or at least survive long enough for Illyria to wake up.

Unfortunately, Or'saa shared more traits with his bull-like appearance than Connor had anticipated. The Ancient suddenly dipped his head and rushed forward with a charge, catching the young man by surprise. Connor barely had time to twist in between the two lethal horns before he impacted the large head. Or'saa didn't stop, carrying them both forward until Connor found himself smashed against the side of an unfortunately pristine-looking Ram pickup. The truck's side window exploded behind him from the impact, and the vehicle rocked on its high suspension. Connor's breath left his lungs in a rush, and blackness tinged the edges of his vision as the door deformed behind him.

Pinned there by the horns, nearly senseless, he reacted purely by instinct, pulling his legs up and wide as a huge fist sailed deadly close underneath. Instead of crushing his lower body it struck the truck instead, which skidded sideways from the impact and rolled away like a toy across the small park, sowing the lawn with glass and metal fragments.

It was a relief to no longer be crushed against the vehicle. Unfortunately, he was still hanging with his arms slung over the Ancient's horns, uncomfortably close to the gorilla-like face and glowing red eyes. He brought a knee up to smash into the chin, which in the end probably did more damage to his leg than it did to Or'saa's head.

And then suddenly he was flying; the demon had flung him using his horns, and Connor found himself arcing toward the art building at an uncomfortable velocity. Nor was bouncing off the brick wall at roughly the level of the second floor particularly fun. Red lights flashed before his eyes, and he barely got his arms under him as he fell to the cement sidewalk, breaking his fall. Pain arced up his limbs and his face cracked off the ground, and his mouth filled with the taste of blood.

He lay there for a moment, thinking he really should get up. He felt the cement tremble slightly as something large and heavy approached. _Ah, crap._ He managed to roll over, all the better to see the huge demon approaching him.

There was a crack, and Or'saa lurched slightly, his tough hide sparking. A few metres away, a uniformed police officer stared at the large beast, the hand that clutched his service pistol shaking. The unfortunate patrolman had blundered into the battle; his patrol car sat in the middle of the street, the bright red lights strobing the surrounding buildings. The demon turned his attention to him, and he squeezed off another shot which bounced off the monster's face. Or'saa snarled.

"No, no, no! Run!" Connor yelled as best he could, as he tried to pull himself to his feet.

The officer either didn't hear him or was too terrified to move. As the Ancient bore down on him, he emptied the rest of his gun, the bullets merely glancing off. Then it was too late; the man barely had time to scream as the giant fist descended.

Marc took advantage of the distraction to rush out of where ever he had been hiding, grabbing Connor and pulling him to cover. Which, ironically, was back into the storage area, behind the gaping hole in the wall that Or'saa had left in his exit.

The demon himself proved to easily distracted; instead of returning in search of either Connor or Illyria, the young men could hear the police car being demolished. The sound of crumpling metal echoed around the street, and the cruiser's engine flew past their field of view.

"We need help," Connor coughed as Marc carefully peeked out of the building.

"No kidding. I'm thinking cruise missiles, myself."

"Where's Illyria?"

Marc's mouth set into a grim line. "I haven't seen her. She's probably next door... I don't know what shape she's in." The young man looked at the sizable hole the demoness had left in the wall near the ceiling where she hit. "Want me to see what I can?"

Connor coughed some more; he wondered if he was bleeding into his lungs. "I don't think we have time. This guy seems to have a short attention span, but he might decide to come back to finish us off. We need help." He thought for a moment. "Take a look... where is he?"

Marc nervously poked his head around the corner. Down the street, Connor could hear more crashes and crunching. He pulled his head back. "He's trashing cars and street lights. Christ, I hope people had the sense to run."

"What shape is the squad car in?"

"It's upside down and the engine is torn out. I don't think we'll be getting away in that."

"We won't be trying. Can you get into the cabin?"

"Probably... _me?_"

"You need to get on their radio and call for help."

"That idea sucks."

Connor glared at his friend. "Fine. I think my sword is on the ground out there. You gonna help me take him down?"

The two stared at each other for a few long moments. "Crap," Marc muttered.

He turned away, crouching at the edge of the hole in the wall. Peeking around, he saw Or'saa tearing apart an unfortunate Fedex truck half a block down the street. The driver's body, mangled and unrecognizable, lay at the monster's feet, and Marc guessed he'd been unlucky enough to have a delivery in the area. The student darted out of his shelter while Or'saa's back was turned – and before he had too much time to consider what he was doing.

The police cruiser was in rough shape; laying on its roof, nearly the entire engine compartment had been torn away, and oil and other fluids pooled on the ground around it. Marc skittered over glass, trying to minimize the noise he made. Just his luck – while the cabin's roof over the driver's side had been caved in, none of the doors had been dislodged, and all were jammed solidly in place. He was forced to crawl on his hands and knees, over the shattered glass and plastic, through the passenger's side window into the cabin. It was difficult finding his way around – the sun had set, and Or'saa had not left a light source intact anywhere around the area – and his hands were scratched and bleeding by the time he managed to enter the squad car.

He crouched in the wreckage, feeling disoriented just looking at the interior of a car from this angle. The radio microphone swung free, and he traced it up to the radio which, miraculously, was intact, and still had power – he'd thought it might run on the car battery, but apparently had some form of backup. Not knowing what else to do, he snatched the microphone out of the air, squeezing the side button and speaking into it. "Hello? Hello?"

He experienced a moment of relief as the radio crackled in reply. "Car seven-one, this is Dispatch. Who is this? Officer MacLean, is that you?"

He took a breath. "MacLean's dead. Listen, there's a creature trashing anything it can get its hands on near the park just outside Loam's Art Supply store. It killed your officer and it's not stopping there. You better get some people here _now_!"

"What... Who is this? Is this a joke?"

_Great_. "I'm just a UCLA student, but this is _not_ a prank! This thing is really big, and really dangerous. Look, people are dying out here! Just get some people here, _preferably_ with some artillery!"

"Sir, please stand by."

"_Stand by?_ Are you kidding?" Marc stared incredulously at the radio, but there was no response. The silence dragged out for an agonizingly long time to the hybrid, who flinched at the sound of crashing glass, crumpling metal, and screams which were entirely too close for his comfort.

Finally, the radio crackled back to life, though the reply carried rather little in the way of assurance. "Sir, be advised, reinforcements are being dispatched. Seek shelter until they get there."

Marc winced as a car went tumbling, end over end, past his field of view. "Those reinforcements better have some big guns, dispatch. Excuse me while I go cower somewhere."

--------

It was because the incident in the alley was so fresh in the city's collective memory that Jacob Landon's pager went off... just as he was walking from the precinct to his car. Cursing, he turned and ran back into the building.

Captain Hynes was waiting just inside the entrance. A big black man, who could easily have been a star football player had he not followed in his father's footsteps, he had a calm and joviality rare for a high-ranking cop. None of it was evident in the grim expression he gave the sergeant. "The team's already in the truck, they're waiting for you. Henderson and Lopez have the details, get going."

Landon nodded, dashing past him to head to the precinct garage. Henderson was sitting in the truck's driver's seat, nodding at him as he dashed past. The engine roared as he passed, and he barely had time to grab the rear door and jump in before they began to move.

Seven members of the squad sat on the benches on either side of the truck, gearing up, strapping on equipment and checking their weapons. He strode by them, yanking off his jacket and tossing it into a small steel locker bolted to the side of the vehicle near the front, plucking out his own gear at the same time.

He leaned forward into the front of the vehicle while buckling on his vest. Henderson was at the wheel, moving the truck at breakneck speed through the streets of the city. Lopez, already geared up, sat in the passenger's seat.

"What's the deal?" he questioned. The irritation at being called into action was fading away, and he was settling into the ice-like calm that had made him squad leader.

"Disturbance near the UCLA campus," Lopez replied. "At least one officer down, unknown number of civilian casualties. Reports of a monster, probably a really big demon."

Landon snorted. _Demon_. That was apparently the official name for the freaks now, according to some consultant brought in from some weird government agency. Apparently the suits had known about the 'hidden' part of the world for a long time, but never saw fit to inform the populace. That kind of thing didn't sit well with the sergeant. As far as he was concerned, if they'd known about it for so long, they could cough up the cash, training, and the personnel to form special teams meant for situations like this.

"Who's already there?"

"Three units from 18th and 23rd. 23rd's Specials are on their way to back us up. You're C2 for the whole thing."

Landon grabbed the frame of the truck as Henderson took a corner particularly hard. "Nobody's seen this thing?"

"Nobody who's been able to talk about it afterwards. I guess the original call came in on the radio from the car of the first uniform on the scene. Reported the guy was dead, and some big monster was on the loose."

Landon nodded and retreated into the back of the truck, where the rest of the team waited, already geared up. Quickly, he repeated what he had been told to them, advising them to be ready for anything. Literally; his team had been shot at, clawed, bitten, oozed, and had magic thrown at them since they started taking the freaks on directly. _Anything_ meant a lot more than it used to.

Turning to the weapon's locker, he pulled out and readied his own rifle and customary pistol. After that, there was nothing left to do but watch as Henderson expertly scooted through the streets of Los Angeles, cars moving out of their path at the sound of the truck's siren. Another squad car met them en-route, sirens wailing, sliding in front of them to help clear any traffic.

"This is it," Henderson announced.

At first Landon thought she was wrong; there were supposed to be other units already on-scene, and he could see no flashing lights. But as the truck slowed and the headlights played over the wreckage on the street, including the scattered pieces of a car with distinctive white and black markings, that notion fled from his mind.

As the truck slid to a stop, the sergeant followed his team as they quickly jumped out of the back of the truck, taking watchful positions with their weapons raised. Landon adjusted his throat-microphone as he hopped out into the still-warm air of the early night.

"Jesus," commented Stern as he looked around nervously.

It wasn't a war zone, but it was damned close. There was no difficulty telling where the creature had been; cars lay crumpled or torn apart, and at the corner of the block there was a convenience store with its front caved in, the shelves and fridges torn apart. Light and electrical poles had been torn down, and just down the street from the team, a small car was embedded into the side of a building – two metres above the ground. There wasn't a single intact vehicle in the area of street Landon could see.

The only saving grace was that the few surrounding blocks were relatively unoccupied. Some university residences, mostly empty during the summer. Some shops, and some storage houses. Not a place that would be heavily occupied on a Friday night.

But not unoccupied. Close to the truck, sprawled against the wall of a nearby apartment building, was a middle-aged woman – probably a shopkeeper, closing up for the night. Maybe a wife, maybe a mother. Her short, greying blonde hair was sticky with blood. Reaching down, Landon felt for a pulse. There was none.

He looked up as lights and sound announced the arrival of the 23rd's SWAT and two more cruisers, which pulled up beside his own team's vehicle, the other assault truck jumping the curb to stop on the grass of the nearby park. At the same time, a squad car rolled up from a side street, conspicuously dark with its headlights off. As it came to a stop, a uniformed officer hopped out.

Landon didn't waste time with pleasantries. "Where is it?"

The officer pointed down the street. "As near as we can tell just down there, in the bookstore. We've been avoiding getting to close, seeing what it did to MacLean and some of the people who got in its way.

"We've been shutting down the streets in the area, and I've got two people getting pedestrians inside anywhere they can. Basically, we've been trying to keep ourselves and everyone else out of its way. It seems mostly interested in trashing cars and light sources."

"Good, keep on it. We'll handle taking it on."

"Sarge, be careful. MacLean... he still had his sidearm, but he'd emptied the clip. If this is just one freak..." The man left the rest unsaid.

Landon nodded. He pointed in the direction his team had arrived. "Take your car and block the street down that way, and make sure there's more cars on the way to help out. I want this place locked down for a three block radius. If it's attacking lights, no roof lights, just use your headlights and wig-wags, keep them pointed away."

The officer gave an affirmative and hopped into his car to carry out his orders, spinning his tires as he peeled away. Landon tapped his throat-mic to get his crew's attention.

"Alright team. Whatever this thing is, it's big and can tear apart cars with its bare hands, and is probably resistant to bullets. Lights piss it off, it looks like. The blues are blockading the streets and keeping the pedestrians out of the way. If you see people, tell them to get inside _anywhere_ and keep the lights off. Split up, two-man teams, centring around the bookstore. Let's find this critter."

As it turned out, the critter didn't need to be found.

The only warning the various officers had was one giant _thoom_, which seemed to shake the nearby building. The next moment the wall nearby seemed to explode outward as if a bomb had gone off. While the creature had entered the bookstore, it apparently had not considered walls between the buildings on the block to be any sort of obstacle. The side of the building, conveniently located next to a steel loading bay which was completely ignored, burst outward in a shower of brick and cinder blocks.

And out of the dust strode a hulking mass.

Landon's eyes went wide as he saw the creature. It looked for all the world like a hunched over minotaur, or some weird image of a bull. Its skin was dark and stony, and had it stood still he might have mistaken it for a grotesque piece of art.

"Holy crap."

The headlights from the cruisers seemed to catch its attention; it suddenly turned and charged one, spearing the vehicle through with its horns. The officer inside barely had time to jump out before the entire vehicle was lifted; the creature grabbed hold with its hands and began systematically tearing the vehicle apart, the retreating cop dodging pieces of debris even as he ran for cover.

Landon didn't want to know what the thing could do to a person, although he guessed some of the unfortunates in the area may have already found out. "Disperse! Don't let it get too close!" he shouted into his team radio.

The thing had pulled out the car's engine. It reared back, and flung the engine like a baseball. Landon barely had time to throw himself aside as the mangled V-8 shot past, smashing into the assault truck, punching through the exterior metal and landing inside the mercifully empty rear area. The truck rocked sideways on its suspension and nearly tipped over. From the front cabin he could hear Henderson's yelp of fright as she was thrown around inside.

"Henderson! Jackie! You okay?" In response he received a stream of language as red as her hair, and he concluded she was unhurt. "Enough of this! Open fire! Take it down!"

The guns began to roar. Landon's team, carefully arranged in a crescent to avoid deadly misses, sprayed the beast for all they were worth. And right away, it was apparent their efforts were pointless. Landon could see the creature's hide sparking and rippling as the fragmenting rounds shattered against its hide, which was apparently just as rock-like as it appeared from a distance.

The creature growled, which sounded for all the world like a big truck grinding gears. Half of the cruiser, still held in its hand, was flung at Lopez; but the Latino was quicker on his feet than his thick muscles implied, and he jumped aside, rolling to safety as the vehicular cannonball rolled past.

"Get back! Get back!" The monster began stomping toward Lopez, who backed away, keeping up his fire. "Clair! Give it a bang!"

The man reacted quickly to the order, pulling a flash-bang and tossing it just in front of the creature. It paused, and looked curiously down at the object, while the humans around knew to turn away. The small grenade exploded with a blinding flash and deafening crack, and even before Landon turned back to look, he could hear the roar of rage, and _feel_ the ground shake as it staggered.

_At least one thing works on this bastard_, he thought. Slinging his rifle and pulling his pistol, he prepared to see if armour-piercing rounds worked as well.

--------

Meanwhile, in a nearby art store, another Ancient was slowly piecing together the scattered fragments of her mind, trying to recover control of her body. The first coherent concept the collective threads of her mind had put together was that had been really rather stupid to stand there and get hit. The second was that it was no less foolish to have tried to talk to him in the first place, as if _any_ Ancient could be swayed by reason rather than force.

Connor was being a bad influence on her.

The third thought was that she had no idea how long she'd been 'out'... unlike her meditations, there had been no functional thread of her mind keeping track of her environment. Where was Or'saa? Why did she still live?

It was very difficult to knock out Illyria; nearly any portion of her brain was capable of taking up the task of housing her main consciousness, while the rest was repaired by the same mechanisms that had allowed her to reshape the shell's internals in the first place. Of course, this didn't mean it would be a portion that possessed a proper, functioning connection to the rest of her body. Buried under wood, metal, and art supplies, the demoness could only barely move her extremities.

She hoped Connor was not badly hurt. She could just barely feel him nearby with her senses, but she wasn't collected enough to be able to measure his health.

With a supreme effort of will, she managed to move an arm, knocking away some of the debris. Her legs began to respond, and she pushed herself to a kneeling position in the middle of the ruined shop.

Illyria seethed at her traitorous vessel. She could hear the other humans engaging the other Old One ineffectually with their firearms. Their small weapons would not be enough – they did not know how to kill him. He would destroy them all before they could hurt him sufficiently. She did not care about these foolish humans, they were welcome to their fate. But once Or'saa was done with them, he would kill Connor and Marc. That was not acceptable.

She staggered to her feet.

--------

Landon gritted his teeth as he watched another man go cartwheeling bonelessly through the air after being struck by the big creature. They were three down already; he strongly suspected that two of those would never get back up.

The smart thing would be to disengage, back off, try to harry the thing until the military could get there. But it was a summer's Friday night in LA... pick any direction, and one could find bars or other places filled with people. This was the least-populated area in at least a mile radius. If they didn't keep the thing here, it would wander to populated areas and the death toll would be terrible.

They were only very slowly wearing the beast down; a few shots had managed to pierce the creature's hide, but the injuries were nicks, paper cuts. They simply weren't causing enough damage. His armour piercing rounds had managed to hole the stony flesh, but he might as well have been throwing lawn darts for all the damage he managed to do, and he'd had to move fast to avoid getting stomped in return. Even the heavy rifles both SWAT teams carried could do little more than stagger the beast, irritating it – or, Hell, _entertaining_ it. Landon had no idea how intelligent this thing was, but he honestly suspected the monster was enjoying itself.

He'd see what he could do about that.

"Jackie." The red-haired lady looked over at him. "Get on the radio, ask dispatch what they can provide along the way of gunships. If they can't get those, we're going to need some kind of anti-armour weapons. Tell them to talk to the Guard if they have to."

Henderson blinked in surprise, but to her credit she didn't hesitate. "Right." She dashed over to the team's battered truck to use the radio inside.

"Command your men to distract him."

Landon spun at the sound of the voice, and there stood the last person he'd have expected to see. His eyes widened as he recognized the blue woman from a few weeks ago. _Illyria_, his mind supplied. She was certainly worse for wear this time; she wavered on her feet, holding one arm as if injured, and blood as red as any human's trickled down from her scalp.

"What! What are you doing here?"

She growled, a sound that would have been comical from her slight figure – if he hadn't already seen what she was capable of. "Distract him! I will get close and expose his vulnerable spot, his throat. Your weapons will be able to penetrate the flesh located there!"

"I'm not giving this operation over to a leather clad vigilante who may have had something to do with bringing this thing here to begin with!" he snarled. "I should arrest you, not entrust my men's lives to you!"

She hissed in rage, and Landon nearly brought his weapon up to bear on her. Before either being could act, they were both interrupted by another shouted voice over the sounds of gunfire.

"Illyria!" The two battling authorities turned to see Connor stagger into view, partially supported by Marc. "You're alive, thank God."

"Connor," she acknowledged without expression, though inwardly she was pleased to see him.

The sergeant was less so. "Goddamn it, what are you doing here? Get inside!"

"You need our help!"

"Your help? What are you going to do, bleed on it?" He motioned to one of the unarmoured officers nearby, who moved forward to take them into custody.

"If your man touches me, I will kill him," Illyria hissed.

Landon's pistol came up to point at her face. "Making threats like that isn't smart."

"I do not make _threats_."

Connor jumped in between them before something disastrous could happen. "We don't have time for this! Let her help, she wants to stop him as much as you," Connor pleaded.

"If you consider me an enemy, then what you should do is permit me to expend myself against our mutual foe," the demoness advised with contempt.

They all winced at the detonation of another flash-bang. "I don't send people on suicide missions, no matter whether I like them or not!" Landon growled, his pistol still held level at her eyes.

She pointed angrily at the men in the street and park, all of whom were desperately trying to keep out of Or'saa's reach. "Your soldiers are already on a suicide mission!"

"They're holding the creature here until reinforcements arrive!"

"They are holding nothing!" A scream rang out over the street, accentuating her point. "While we argue, your men die! We must act now, and together, lest your 'reinforcements' arrive in time to rescue a field of corpses!"

Landon grit his teeth, and the Ancient could see the anger and indecision rippling from him, the annoyance of having his authority questioned, and the concern for his team and the surrounding populace.

His hand dropped and re-holstered his pistol. "Fine. You think you can do better, you're welcome to try."

"Good," Illyria replied. "I will need to get close. As I said, his vulnerability is his throat. I will force him to expose it, and you and your men must be prepared to capitalize upon it."

"And how do you expect to do that?"

"The old-fashioned way," she replied vaguely, an odd turn of phrase from the Ancient. "He will consider me the greatest threat on the field, and he will react to me. You must keep his attention elsewhere."

"Fine." Landon turned away to speak to his team over their radios.

"Illyria-" Connor approached her, Marc at his side.

"There is no alternative, Connor. Do you have your sword? Mine was shattered."

He shook his head. "Mine went flying when he smacked me around. I can't find it in the dark."

"Then we need the humans and their weapons."

"Are you sure you can handle him?" Connor asked. He concern was evident; it was both unfamiliar and yet heartening to the former goddess.

"We will find out. We have no choice."

"Be careful."

Illyria nodded. Beside her, Landon turned to address her. "Alright, my team is going to draw its attention. When you see my men toss a grenade toward it, turn away quickly, or you'll be blinded by the flash."

"I will be wary," she replied. Then she turned and strode toward the battle.

The fight had carried out of the park and back to the street, and Or'saa rampaged amongst a number of wrecked vehicles. Despite herself, Illyria had to admire the teamwork and cooperation amongst the humans. They covered each other; whenever the other Ancient was about to corner one, a teammate would manoeuvre to provide distraction. Or'saa's hide was pockmarked with tiny wounds, which before she would have considered impossible. Perhaps she'd underestimated these humans... again.

She made her way to the cover of a overturned pickup. Just in time, the humans began their part; the night suddenly roared with the sounds of sustained weapons fire, and as Landon had said, a small round object arced through the air to slide toward Or'saa's feet. The big demon was wise to the humans' tricks, though, and he kicked it back, turning to shield his own eyes from the coming blast.

It served Illyria's purposes, though; as soon as Or'saa turned away, she broke into a run toward him. The flash-bang exploded in midair on the periphery of her vision, dazzling her, but she did not slow down, relying on her other senses to guide her. The other Old One was a beacon to her extraordinary senses; she could have located him in the darkest room.

He sensed her approach, but was too slow; she dashed around his far side, planted one foot, and rebounded. Powerful legs sent her into the air, in just the kind of manoeuvre she advised Connor to avoid, causing her to crash into the other Ancient's shoulders with nearly enough force to knock him down. Quick as thought, her hands grabbed his horns and her legs wrapped around his head. Or'saa flung his head back and forth, nearly dislodging her. Fury and desperation lent her strength though, and she held fast, riding the other Ancient like an insane parody of a rodeo.

Bracing her feet against the front of his chest, she strained and pulled, using the back of his neck as a fulcrum, his horns as the levers. His head was lifted up and back, and he struggled harder as the soft, fleshy part under his chin was exposed. Had he been more intelligent, he might have broken her legs, but instead he flailed above himself with his arms, striking blindly.

As one heavy fist crashed against her side, she saw Landon and his team standing a few metres away, dumbfounded. "Shoot, you idiots!" she shouted, as breath and strength began to desert her.

Her command broke their paralysis, and Landon yelled to the other officers, waving them closer. He led by example, charging close to the monster; had Or'saa attention to spare, the human would have been very dead.

"Under the chin! Under the chin! Fire!" And the street erupted into a cacophony of gunfire.

The bullets buzzed past them like swarms of angry insects, and behind her Illyria could hear the impacts against stone and the shattering of windows as the misses found their way into the unfortunate buildings and storefronts behind them. Many rounds bounced off Or'saa's stony chest and face, but she could feel the other Ancient tremble as others found their mark.

The members of both SWAT teams were excellent shots, and she ducked as best as she could behind the other Ancient's mass – but Illyria was right in the path of fire, and Or'saa was not standing still. Her armour managed to deflect a number of bullets, and Or'saa himself provided effective cover, but one round passed through her shoulder, and two more entered her left thigh and calf. Even she could not repress a cry of agony, her strength betraying her, and she was flung away as her grip weakened. She struck the underside of a car which lay on its side and tumbled to the pavement, the pain as her face struck first a mere whisper amongst screams.

Dimly, within the pain, she heard Connor cry out her name. Then he was there, lifting her, rolling her back. It took a moment to refocus her eyes, and when she looked up, she saw him looking worriedly down at her.

And behind him, just a few strides away, Or'saa still stood. The Ancient's expression was opaque to the humans, but Illyria could tell that he was furious, and he took a threatening step toward them. The police officers had retreated quickly out of his reach once she had been thrown, their fire waning, but he did not pursue. Or'saa's attention was focused solely upon the one other being on the field who could challenge him.

"Connor, flee," she hissed, attempting to push him away. But he ignored her, laying her gently back upon the street, and stood to face the other demon, his fists clenched, prepared to stave Or'saa off for as long as he was able. Illyria tried to gather the strength to stand. Around them, the police officers had halted their gunfire, unsure of what was going to happen.

The other Ancient took another step, but this time it was halting, unsteady; in the bright lights provided by the police force, Illyria could just barely make out a clear, yellow fluid just beginning to gush down the creature's chest. On his next step Or'saa's entire body wavered, and she could see confusion written across his neanderthal-like face. Then the Ancient collapsed, the fall shivering the asphalt she lay upon, the tips of his horns a bare metre from her feet.

There was a long period of silence as everyone present, human or otherwise, nervously watched the fallen creature. Landon, his rifle at the ready, cautiously approached the Ancient. He raised a booted foot and prodded Or'saa's side, finally giving a solid thump. At the lack of reaction he stepped away and signalled to his team.

He turned to where Illyria lay on the ground, Connor supporting her. "He's down," he said unnecessarily. He managed to add, grudgingly, "Good work."

"You must incinerate the body," Illyria demanded, frustrated by the weak sound of her own voice. "And do not allow your people to come into contact with the ash, else there is a small possibility he can resurrect himself by dominating the body of another creature." She considered it doubtful that Or'saa had the power or skill necessary to arrange such a happening, but she saw no reason to risk it.

"Biohazard, fine. Let the medics patch those holes in you before you bleed to death," Landon admonished sternly.

She didn't answer, but Connor nodded in reply. Landon turned and walked toward the officers who were shedding the weapons in favour of medical kits.

"Try not to move," Connor advised her.

She was struck by how similar this situation was to that night in the alley. She was injured, the demon fallen, and the humans helping clean up the mess. Except, this time, she wasn't alone. She looked up as the one named Landon directed two of the EMTs over to her and Connor.

A sudden fear gripped her. _I won't let them take me._

"Connor, we must leave," she told the boy, who looked down at her in surprise.

"Illyria, you're hurt, you need help," he protested. "We can't run off, let them help you."

"We must leave!" she replied through clenched teeth. "Once in their custody they will attempt to control me, and I will not permit it!"

She could see the confusion and frustration on his face; he knew she needed help, and at the same time he could see she may be right – it was unlikely the authorities would just let Illyria walk away after it was all said and done.

"There's too many people here, we can't just get up and walk away."

She couldn't walk at all at the moment, but he was right. There was one way out; a way she dared not try during the fight, for fear it would drain her too much, or that it wouldn't affect Or'saa. She wasn't sure it would work at all.

"Prepare to run," she managed to say, and she raised one hand toward the surrounding humans. She reached inside herself, touching her own stores of inner power and knowledge, and connected them to the memories of the shell, the portions of her mind she had begun consciously avoiding. Like the hot and cold air of a storm front, they met and mixed, spawning a thundering tornado of power which the demoness caught and channelled.

It was exhausting, almost painful. And yet made her feel more like herself than she had in months.

"Wh-" Angel's son managed to say, and then the air seemed to ripple, and the world became oddly silent. She heard Marc issue a startled squawk. When Connor looked up, everything around them appeared to move in the barest of motion; the people, Landon and the EMTs as they walked toward them, even the swiftly rotating lights of the ambulances and police vehicles. There was the faintest thrum in the air, as if they were hearing the heartbeat of the universe itself. If they'd asked, she could have told them it was indeed.

"_Run_," Illyria hissed, strained, "I cannot maintain this for long!"

He took no more time to wonder, scooping her up into his arms lopsidedly as he tried to avoid burdening his injured shoulder. Despite the pain he carried her light weight easily, and part of her was amused to note the flush of warmth through his body and face as he held her.

"Marc, come on!" he called, and then he dashed away, across the street and around the corner of the block.

The three barely made it into the shadows before time broke loose from Illyria's grasp, and when it gave way so did she, falling unconscious in Connor's arms.

--------

Awareness came and went for her during the rushed journey back to the hotel, as the threads of her consciousness awoke and collapsed separately, only sometimes able to carry her core consciousness, giving others the impression that she was catatonic or shock. When she had time to review her memories later, she would see Connor and Marc abandoning the idea of retrieving the Civic, instead summoning a taxi a few blocks away from where Or'saa had fallen. Connor used money and threats to cow the driver as she bled upon his rear seats, Angel's son using his strength to shred his jacket to make bandages to slow the bleeding. Illyria, for her part, was rather thankful she had not been completely aware while stuffed with the two young men in the crowded back seat.

When Illyria had recovered enough to be fully aware, she found herself in her room at the Hyperion. She lay upon the bed, beneath a blanket, and discovered that below the covering she was nude. She slipped the covering down slightly to examine her shoulder, which had been expertly dressed and bandaged. She could feel the same attention had been granted her thigh and calf. Though her wounds throbbed, the bed was comfortable, and the blanket warm and soft. She felt no desire to move.

"Oh, hey, are you awake?" She looked up to see Connor and Lorne enter her room, the human carrying some water and a bundle of fresh bandages.

"I am," she replied, surprised by how rough her own voice sounded. Though clothed or unclothed made no difference to her, she pulled the blanket up slightly, remembering humans and their sometimes foolish sense of propriety.

Connor sat himself down in the chair which sat by the bed. "Sorry. Sometimes it's hard to tell with you." He blushed. "Uh... I'm not sure you were all there when we were fixing you up. We asked you how to take off the suit and then it just kind of... disappeared. Sorry about that."

She concentrated for a moment, feeling for her armour. It had responded to her command to phase away, and was now healing, just as she was. He seemed to already understand that he had been dealing with only portions of her consciousness, so she didn't bother explaining. "It is fine. It was necessary."

"Okay. Just in case you don't remember, we got the bullets out of your leg. The bleeding's a lot less than I'd expect, but we'll probably have to change the bandages tomorrow." He cracked a smirk at her. "To be honest, this is my first time dealing with gunshots. Swords, knives, clubs, and crossbows, sure, but this is new."

"I am healing, so it is adequate. How badly were you hurt?"

He managed a shrug. "I'll be black and... uh... blue, tomorrow, but I'll be okay."

He looked back down at her, frowning, realizing she'd attempted to divert his attention. "You're the one in bad shape. We should have stayed and let the police doctors treat you," he admonished.

"You know as well as I that once in their 'care' I would not have been released." she stated. "I will not be caged."

Connor sighed. Her mind was made up, and that was that. "Okay. But, please please _please_, Illyria... stay in this bed until you're healed? You've done enough, let us take care of you for a little while."

"I will abide."

Connor seemed to realize that she was being too compliant and agreeable. "Something wrong?"

Illyria looked up at him, and at Lorne who watched silently from the side. _Yes; I helped kill the last remaining link to my time._ "No, I am merely tired," she replied instead.

Lorne was ever-perceptive, however. "It couldn't have been fun, killing an old school chum. But you probably saved a lot of people. Good job, love."

She closed her eyes, briefly pretending that another voice, a deeper, more roughened voice, had said those words. She suddenly felt much better. "It was unavoidable. He had to be reminded who was the greater of us."

Spirits rising, Connor broke in with an amused expression. "Is this a good time to tell you just how awesomely cool you looked riding that guy? Can I call you Calamity Jane?"

"It was necessary. And no, you may not." But she was unable to keep the barest hint of a smile off her amethyst lips. It was obvious Connor saw it, because he suddenly looked insufferably pleased.

"If there's one universal constant, it's Old Blue's ability to make a spectacle," Lorne commented, his customary smile returned. "Still, I'd avoid repeat appearances on 'Cops' for the next little while, hmm?"

"I think we've given them enough to talk about for the next little while," Connor agreed.

"That's what it's all about," the green singer replied, turning to walk to his room. As he left, he began to sing the first song which came to his mind. "People are talkin', talkin' 'bout people..."

The country tune was oddly familiar and pleasing to Illyria's ears. It took the barest amount of concentration to summon it forth, even though it was part of the shell's memories, and, only partially realizing it, she began to hum along.

Halfway out the door, Lorne's sharp ears caught the unexpected melody, and the very unexpected source. Without truly considering the consequences, he turned to look at the demoness in surprise.

It was like looking into the core of an atomic explosion. Incredible age, memories of absolute power, burned across Lorne's special senses with the heat of a star. It was similar to reading Angel, except millions of times more intense. The singer managed to catch a glimpse of a duality, the same strange mix of light and dark as the noble vampire, and the colours... A colour...

Connor spun as Lorne's cry of agony reached across the hotel room. The young man reacted without hesitation, dashing over as the demon collapsed against the door frame, catching him just before he hit the floor. "Lorne! Are you alright?"

"I-I'm fine," Lorne answered, his wavering voice indicating anything but. He managed to bring a hand up to wipe at his upper lip, and seemed fascinated by the blood he found there. He forced a chuckle. "I should have known better than that. You're still high voltage, bluebird."

Her eyes narrowed, and she glared from her position on the bed. "You read me."

The green singer snorted. "Read. I suppose you could call it that. I might call it 'having my eyeballs blow-torched', but hey, ketchup, catsup."

"What did you see?" She forced herself to sit up, the blanket starting to slip away, but she didn't care. She needed to know.

Lorne looked at her carefully as Connor helped him back to her feet. He blinked, almost as if he didn't recognize her. He shook his head, his mouth opened, and he paused. "I'm not sure. But... I think you're going to be okay, Leery."

She didn't understand his answer, but didn't get a chance to demand more details. With Connor's help, the demon retreated from her room toward his own.

--------

Landon sat on the edge of the team's battered assault truck. Behind him, Lopez and Stern were hauling out the car engine which still sat in the back, hefting the battered piece of gear out and onto a tarp laid on the ground. Oil and gasoline stank up the back of the vehicle, and none of his team would be able to stow away their gear anytime soon.

With the creature downed, over a dozen ambulances had arrived to treat the injured. Unfortunately, Landon suspected there wouldn't be that many injured to treat; most were either dead or unhurt. There weren't too many middle cases. Thirty-five dead at first guess, including ten cops. Thankfully his own team had only suffered one loss, Clair, but the non-SWAT guys had been hit hard. Landon hated burying fellow men in blue.

And it would have been worse, had not a woman in blue showed up. He doubted her presence was coincidence. He had questions to ask her, but didn't get the chance. She and the young men she'd been with had disappeared – literally. She'd been badly hurt, but he didn't doubt he'd see her again. She was a freak, and freaks were durable.

The operation had been a fiasco. Tomorrow, he'd go to the captain and say so. If the mayor wanted the freaks, the _demons_, dealt with, it was time to start doing it properly. They needed better gear and training. Maybe those government idiots who'd visited would have something more useful to contribute than just 'proper terminology'.

First things were first, though. He tapped his throat mic. "Jackie, ring up HQ. Ask them to dig up anything they might have on a Connor Reilly. Tell them I want it on my desk by tomorrow."


	12. Phantoms

Retirement was working out well for Vincent Wellington.

About a year before, he had begun to worry. When the Watcher's Council headquarters – and most of the Watcher's Council – had been killed by a bomb, Vincent had been _quite_ worried. Worried that he'd be next, or worse – that he'd be called out of retirement. Thankfully, Rupert Giles, bright boy that he was, had stepped up and was now pulling the remains of the Council back together.

The old Watcher was very interested in seeing how Rupert would reorganize the old institution. The man had always been a comparative maverick, despite his tamer middle years. He and the administration had clashed on many issues. And the world was different now – just the kind of situation a young firebrand like Rupert would do well in.

It was nearly unimaginable! Dozens, perhaps hundreds of active Slayers? The successful destruction of an entire Hellmouth? Then there was the event in Los Angeles a few months ago. The underworld of the planet was no longer secret! And far from cowering under the beds like the old sods at the Council had insisted would happen, humanity was rising to meet the threat.

It was thrilling! Vincent would never have imagined that he would have lived to see the day when the true defeat of demon- and vampire-kind would be so close.

In good spirits, he walked the short commute from his Council-supplied apartment to his workplace, a small mailbox renting company. He may have been pushing seventy, but it was an extremely _fit_ seventy, thank you very much. It was still early in the morning, and the sun was just beginning to break free of the horizon, bathing the quiet streets of the suburb of Athens, Georgia, in a pleasant yellow glow. The air was already warm, and Vincent had his "company" jacket slung over one arm. The sky was the light blue of the early hours, cloudless, and it was looking to be a bright, sunny day.

He waved pleasantly to a heavyset man who was sweeping the sidewalk in front of a diner, who likewise gave a friendly wave in return. Behind him, a tall, black man in uniform was carrying a crate of milk into the small diner; the other man halted his sweeping long enough to hold the door for him, the two exchanging smiles and pleasantries.

Vincent couldn't help but feel a greater sense of elation. When he had come here nearly fifteen years before, he had been rather surprised by the faint undertones of racism and segregation that still persisted in the southern state. It wasn't truly malicious, and for the most part no one seemed to notice it; it was probably only his status as a foreigner that made him so sensitive.

Like everything else, that had changed on that terrible day, that wonderful day those months ago, when mankind's true enemies had revealed themselves. How silly it was, people realized, to hold yourself apart from your neighbour because he had different coloured skin, or followed God in a different way – when there were those in your community who weren't even the same species, and regularly took tea with Lucifer himself!

It was with those good spirits that Vincent came up to the small shop that served as his workplace, "Magic Mailboxes", a rather un-clever name for a mailbox rental shop that the Council had set up on the edge of the city. Of course, marketing was never a concern for the shop since, in truth, it only had one customer and never any vacancies. His days as a supposed clerk were generally fairly boring, normally spent reading or watching the small television. Occasionally he'd receive a visit from Willard from the clothing store, or Claire from the convenience store next door.

They sometimes joked about the total inactivity of his shop. To them, he was just a cheerful old widower whiling away the years of his retirement at a dead-end job, babysitting a wall full of mailboxes for other people, simply because he had nothing better to do. It wasn't all that inaccurate a presumption. Perhaps, though, he'd soon be able to tell them just what he had retired _from_... wouldn't that turn their heads!

With a jangle, he plucked the keys from his pocket, sliding it into the sturdy front door. It turned without resistance.

That was odd. Hadn't he locked the front door last night?

Leaning over, he looked through the front window, through the solid steel mesh of the security bars. Inside, all looked as it should be; his coffee mug sat undisturbed on the front counter, the papers in place, and even the cube of his computer's screen saver sat spinning in peace. The old, black and white photo of himself and Mary, on their wedding day, looked back at him from the shelf behind the counter.

Suspiciously, he opened the door quietly, stepping in. Immediately, he knew something was wrong, as he stepped over the threshold without feeling the gentle touch of the mystic wards which protected the shop. Most people wouldn't notice it, no more than complaining about a draft, but Vincent had spent thirty years helping the Council with magical research, and he'd had a hand helping the Council-hired witches when they last renewed the spells.

Leaving the door open behind him, he stepped into the quiet front area, listening closely. The place was silent, the only noise coming from outside and the soft whirr of the computer under the counter. Looking up, Vincent looked at the array of mailboxes which made up almost the entire rear wall of the small shop and cursed softly. Two keys had been placed into the locks of two very special boxes and turned.

12-28 and 50-18... Matthew 12:28 from the Bible, and 50.18 from the Qu'ran. Vincent was sure some young Watcher thought he was being very witty when he designed the locking mechanism.

The old Watcher cursed silently to himself. He had no idea what was stored here; it was a safety mechanism the Council decided upon. He really didn't want to know. But he knew this was bad.

Without really thinking of it, he walked over and grabbed what looked to be a mail slot, pulling. The entire wall swung outward, revealing the heavy steel vault hidden on the other side. Inside the hidden vault was another, a large, iron affair – the Council always insisted on iron for their vaults, since the substance was known to repel certain types of creatures. The inner vault possessed its own locking mechanism, which Vincent himself didn't know how to open.

In front of the inner safe were a larger and smaller demon. The smaller demon was currently labouriously drilling away with a heavy drill at the approximate location of the lock; shavings of dark metal were piling up at his feet, and beginning to be littered with the silvery slivers of the strong steel which made up the inner lining of the huge safe.

The equipment, the drilling, and likely the demon's own curses of frustration, should have generated enormous amounts of noise, but there was nothing for Vincent to hear but the sound of his own shocked intake of breath.

A silencing spell!

Perhaps the spell only masked their own noise, or more likely the big demon noticed the change in light as the front of the vault was opened. Regardless, he turned, revealing an ugly, porcine face, his mouth opened in a silent shout of alarm. The smaller green demon jumped, losing grip on the drill, which wrenched free and spun a few times as the bit jammed in the hole. The green demon shouted a curse and pulled his hands back, shaking his wrists from where they had been hit.

Not a decibel of this reached Vincent, however. He pulled back, preparing to slam shut the outer door and lock the two of them inside. Hopefully that would hold them long enough for London to get one of the local Slayers to the scene.

A sharp pain in his chest. Looking down, Vincent could see a dagger, jammed up to the hilt between his ribs, thrown expertly by the larger demon.

_Oh, bollocks._

Further to his annoyance, he found his legs had decided to abandon him, as he fell to his knees heavily. His vision began to redden, tinging toward black at the edges. He tipped over sideways, finding the strength in one arm to at least avoid falling, undignified, onto on his face. He lay on his side on the tiled floor, the blood starting to roll down his chest feeling frigid rather than warm; feeling a detached, clinical interest as he experienced his own death.

He felt no despair at his fate. He was nearly seventy, after all, and Mary had been waiting for him for over fifteen years. _I'm coming, Petal. Put on some tea._

His darkening vision saw the two demons had begun to argue, gesturing violently at him and shaking fists at each other – still with the same unnerving silence. He spent his last breath with a snort of derision at the two. Typical behaviour for their kind.

Vincent's last thought was profound annoyance and disappointment that he wouldn't get to see _their_ time run out.

--------

"_Run_, you swine!"

As if life at the Hyperion wasn't surreal enough.

The weeks following the battle with Or'saa were quiet for the four inhabitants of Angel's old hotel. Marc had moved in; his lease had come up for his old apartment, and Connor had offered him a room at the Hyperion in exchange for some mild rent. It was one more way to help pay the bills, and Connor wasn't worried about Marc abusing the privilege since, simply, Illyria would kill him.

Lorne had actually put forth the notion of Connor offering the Hyperion as a potential residence for students, and Connor was actually considering the possibility. Unfortunately, Connor didn't know how the average student would deal with sharing a boarding house with two demons, not to mention one of those demons being a volatile, super-strong former god. So the idea was on the back burner for the moment.

Said ex-god had been uncharacteristically quiet during the week of her recuperation. She healed remarkably fast, faster than Angel, especially when combined with her meditations. But gunshots were gunshots, and there had been a lot of damage, so her forays to the library or explorations of the city were put on hold. This pleased Connor for more than one reason; he doubted many of the LAPD offers would forget her appearance any time soon.

That officer, Landon, had seen and spoken to all three of them. Connor recognized him from the incident at the Magic Shop; Connor had given him his name then! When could he expect a police officer at the door to the hotel, or a call to his parents' house? This Landon guy wasn't stupid... wouldn't he want to know what Connor and Illyria had been doing there when Or'saa caused so much death and damage?

Such thoughts weighed on Connor as he attempted to study at home or at the hotel, or while working at the hospital. Fall was coming – he'd have to decide whether to return to Stanford or transfer to UCLA. The sublet on his LA apartment was going to end soon, which meant he'd have to choose whether to move into the hotel, or return to live with his parents. Decisions had to be made, but the cares of the world were distracting him.

Illyria, as usual, was difficult to measure. She endured her convalescence with a patience that was unnatural. Her capacity to sit still on the couch in the lobby, silently observing the activities of the men without moving for hours at a time, made Connor wonder – in his more philosophical moments – whether she perceived time in a different manner than the rest of them.

Which wasn't to say that she was impassive. She was as easy to rile as always; usually by Marc, with his frequent questions about the Primordium and her own reign. The student quickly learned to phrase his questions so as to not appear as if criticizing her decisions.

But beyond that, there seemed to be an underlying tension in the demoness. She seemed alert at all times; she glared at shadows. At one point, when he passed her room, he could have sworn she had been talking to herself. Peeking though her door, he had only seen her, sitting on her bed. She had graced him with a glare that did not encourage questions.

Connor had no idea what was going on. He only knew that Illyria did absolutely nothing without purpose, even if that purpose was simply to test someone else, or some other reason more inscrutable. It didn't help that her experiences and ways of thinking could be incredibly alien. Lorne was no help; the most the green demon had been able to say was that she "was going through something", and that she'd come to them when she was ready.

So Connor had to wait, knowing that something was bothering the Ancient, but also knowing that his help and understanding couldn't be forced upon her. In short, exactly what Angel had to do when Connor was going through his own emotional crisis.

Irony really sucked sometimes. Was his Dad up there now, laughing his ass off? The young man hoped so.

Marc, for all that he was supposedly studying Illyria, didn't seem to notice the odd facets of her behaviour. Or perhaps he merely considered them normal for her. When he wasn't peppering her with questions about her world, he was exposing her to different aspects of the modern world, and getting her reactions. Politics, science, art, television, even food, though he hadn't had any success in convincing her to actually eat anything. Connor thought it was a great idea; it helped her acclimate to the modern world – something he privately thought Wesley had done a rather poor job of, though he couldn't really blame the man – and distracted her without being obvious about it.

Perhaps Connor should have monitored Marc and Illyria's activities more closely. Perhaps he should have warned Marc to be careful what he exposed her to. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered.

Marc had introduced Illyria to American football.

Shortly afterwards, Lorne suggested raising Marc's rent.

It was to nobody's great surprise that bloodsports were rather common in the Primordium. The Ancients were a vicious lot, after all. But it was rather surprising that the former goddess would find an acceptable substitute in such an ordinary American sport, especially since she tended to hold up a Brit of all people, as the paragon of what humanity had to offer.

In general, she had no favoured team. She considered the players to be barely more than slaves, gladiators tearing each other apart for the amusement of the empress. The victor was completely irrelevant, so long as the battle was worthy.

Unless one of the teams was the Dallas Cowboys. Then they'd damned well better win. Regardless, she could be very _strident_ in her approval or disapproval for a given team. It was so unlike the demoness' normal behaviour that Connor didn't know where to begin, other than to make it very clear that if Illyria broke the television set, he wouldn't be replacing it. God help them when football season truly started.

For now, Connor sat at the main desk, idling over some paperwork he had been putting off for far too long: his course selection for the next semester at Stanford. It was best to apply for the courses he wanted to be sure he'd get in; if he opted to stay in LA instead, he could always drop them.

Lorne was out on a business lunch, and Marc was behind him, typing on his own computer, which he had set up in place of the old, slow machine left over from Angel Investigations. Illyria was in the room next door watching the game, after annexing the television from Marc. If she couldn't conquer worlds, she at least was going to take over the remote control, Connor mused.

There was a knocking at the hotel door, and Connor's heart rate sped up, just as it had every time there had been a knocking the past three weeks. Those times it had been a courier or repairman, summoned by Marc or Lorne. Connor, however, was waiting for a very different kind of uniform; something blue, with silver or gold badge, and probably toting a machine gun and an arrest warrant.

When Connor stood and walked over to the door, however, it was a very different sight that greeted him. On the other side of the door stood a older man, silver-haired and distinguished, dressed impeccably in a dark suit. Was that a pocket watch chain? The man was the very image of a learned gentleman – so much so that Connor immediately suspected vampire. However, his special senses said nothing of the sort, and the daylight shone directly down upon the man.

_Oh crap. It's a lawyer. They're going to arrest us, and he's our councillor..._ _Wait. No. They don't send the lawyer in first._ Connor shook his head to clear out his own foolish thoughts. The gentleman scowled impatiently, and Connor dashed up the steps to open the door, feeling mildly chagrined even though the man hadn't said anything.

"Hello, can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for representatives of Angel Investigations," the man replied, with a prim English accent. "I was advised that this was the location of their offices. Are they here?"

"Uh," Connor blinked, surprised, "I'm afraid Angel Investigations isn't really in operation anymore."

"'Isn't really'?" The man scowled again. "What does that mean? Are any of its members here or not?"

Connor found himself frowning despite himself, and suddenly wasn't feeling terribly helpful. "No, none at the moment. Who's asking?"

The gentleman fixed Connor with a glare suitable for dressing down an unruly schoolboy. "My name is Robert Wyndham-Price. I represent the Watcher's Council, of which the employees of Angel Investigations should be familiar. I wish to speak to my son, Wesley."


	13. Allies

An aspect immediately summoned Illyria's full attention when she heard those words uttered from the lobby. The football game was immediately forgotten; she had no idea why she found the human sport so interesting, anyway.

She stood, and strode out of the office, instantly shifting over to her human appearance. She appeared in the lobby just as Connor was showing Roger over to the small couch. The young man appeared nervous and pale and, for once, she understood why. Wesley's father allowed himself to be seated, though impatiently. Even from the couch, the man appeared to dominate the room, and Illyria allowed herself to be mildly impressed.

"Where is my son? Or the vampire who owns this place, Angel?" Roger demanded.

"Um... Actually, I own the Hyperion now," Connor replied. "I'm Angel's son, Connor."

Roger regarded Connor distastefully through narrowed eyes. "Ah, yes, the _dhampir_. Yes, I've heard of you."

Connor blinked. "The what?"

Roger snorted. "Unsurprising."

This human was particularly irritating, Illyria immediately decided. Other than the accent, she had difficulty discerning any resemblance to Wesley. They didn't even look all that alike. "Explain your purpose here," she demanded.

Roger turned a cold gaze onto the demoness through narrowed eyes, his expression holding barely-concealed contempt. "And you must be Illyria," he said, slowly, as if the words were sour.

She lifted her chin slightly. "I am."

"My 'purpose here', again, is to speak to my son... on a most important matter. Now will one of you please either tell me where he is, or admit you don't know-"

"Wesley is dead." She made no attempt to soften the blow. She knew both Lorne and Connor would disapprove, but numerous aspects were encouraging her to hurt this human, as she had hurt, as she had known Wesley had hurt on many occasions when dealing with his father.

The reaction was satisfactory. Roger's face paled slightly, and his mouth opened briefly. "What?"

Connor rushed to explain before Illyria could continue. "The... fight here in LA with the demons... Wes was part of that. He didn't make it. Neither did my father or some other friends."

"I see." Roger looked down at his knees for a few long moments. Illyria watched him with interest; the aura of grief was there, but he permitted very little emotion to display on his face. There was a long silence. He finally uttered, "Fool boy. I told him working for that vampire, and particularly that law firm, would come to a bad end."

The demoness' temper flared once again at the slight toward Wesley, but a warning look from Connor kept her silent. The young man addressed Roger again. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way. But... he did a lot of good before the end, he helped stop some of Wolfram and Hart's major plans."

Roger stood suddenly and began walking slowly around the settee. "_Good?_ Is that what you think of the debacle of that night? The entire underworld lies exposed to everyone, now!" He turned to the vampire's son, emotion seeming out of place on his face, gesturing angrily. "My son sacrifices himself, and for what? To slightly inconvenience a demonic organization? To put vampires on television so that they might argue their civil rights?"

"Wesley considered the purpose worthy!" Illyria snarled. She would not permit criticism of her guide, and her own choices by extension. "He did not intend to sacrifice himself. He would not accept a lie."

The older human glared at her. "That doesn't change the fact that he's gone, does it?"

A short burst of pain from a place Illyria still didn't understand. "No. It does not."

Roger sat back down on the couch, the sunlight streaming into the lobby falling across his back, his shadowed face appearing old and tired. His gaze fixed on the floor for long moments, and Illyria wondered how Wesley would react, if he could have seen his father like this. It did not fit Winifred Burkle's memories of his descriptions, nor the simulacrum they had encountered.

"You said you had something important to discuss with Wes," Connor said, gently, after a few moments. He moved slightly around the couch. "Is it anything we can help with?"

"I doubt it," Roger replied. After a moment, he sighed. "I came here to accuse him of being a traitor."

"What?" Illyria burst, incredulous.

He cast a sideways glance at her. "There have been a number of attacks upon secret Watcher's Council storage caches, places where we keep documents and artifacts of mystical or historical value, both within this country and abroad. At least twelve such attacks in the past month, and each time those responsible have managed to make off with the contents with minimal effort."

"How does that involve Wesley?" Connor asked.

"Because he knows where each of those caches is located, and the security safeguards put in place to protect them."

Illyria moved to stand by Connor, so that her presence could not be ignored. "There must be others within your organization who possess the same knowledge."

He looked at her. "There _were_. Almost all died in the bombing that destroyed most of the Council. And almost none possessed the detailed knowledge that Wesley had. Overseeing these caches was to have been part of his eventual duties, had he remained with the Council."

"The Council cast him out," Illyria corrected.

"Exactly," he replied, matching her glare. "He failed to keep control of his Slayer, and after that he was known to keep company with demons and vampires. He worked for Wolfram and Hart! His loyalties were in considerable doubt even before these attacks began occurring. Is it any wonder that the Council would suspect him?"

"Logically, no," she admitted.

"So I was sent here to question him, possibly to bring him back to England. It is vital that we get to the bottom of these attacks, and now you tell me that Wesley died months ago."

"Do you have any other suspects?" Connor questioned.

"We are virtually certain it is connected to Wolfram and Hart... thus the strong suspicion toward Wesley. The law firm has made many quasi-legal attempts to obtain some of our artifacts. The beings responsible for breaking into our vaults appear to have been very well-equipped, and Council investigators believe few other organizations short of the United States government could have outfitted so well."

Illyria nodded. It sounded like something the cowardly servants of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart would do.

"Whether Wesley is... gone... or not, Wolfram and Hart appears to have somehow gained hold of knowledge he possessed, and is making use of it to attack the Council while we are still recovering from the losses of the past few years," he added.

The Ancient found that the very idea infuriated her. The pathetic creatures of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart had no right to what was hers. "You are sure of this?" she demanded.

Roger regarded her warily. "As certain as we can be."

"We will assist."

"What?" Connor said, surprised.

"What aid could you possibly offer?" Roger questioned.

"We are more familiar with Los Angeles and environs. The workings of the demonic enterprise are known to us. Nor do we fear their minions."

"This isn't as simple as smashing our way in and taking back what was stolen," Roger countered. "If it was a matter such as that, the Council has Slayers able to do so."

"Your Council is a shambles," she shot back. "You do not have the resources here to investigate. You are blind, groping in the dark."

Roger glared at her, and she glared right back. They regarded each other for long moments; two immense egos and incontestable wills locked in silent combat. But the outcome was preordained; Roger was, in the end, only human.

"Very well," he finally said, gruffly, breaking eye contact. "I will put together a file containing what we know about these incidents and have it sent over."

"Good," was Illyria's simple reply.

"I would ask that you inform me if you discover anything."

"Wait," said Connor. "Doesn't this mean _you'll_ be working with demons and vampires?"

Surprised, the older man hesitated for a moment, an unrecognizable expression briefly appearing on his face. "Yes... I suppose it does," he replied. "I will do what I... must do, to clear my son's name."

He stood, pausing a moment to adjust his clothes, smoothing out the sleeves of his dark suit. Posture stiff, he walked with sure steps up the short flight of stairs, laying hand to the door handle. Then paused. Illyria's senses could hear his laboured breathing, see the heat draining from his hands. By some strange instinct, she could anticipate the question that was coming next.

Roger did not turn away from the door. "What... what was done with Wesley's body?"

"It was left where he died," Illyria replied. "I did not have opportunity for anything else."

"And his killer?"

"Destroyed."

Roger hesitated a moment. Then he nodded once. "Good." Pulling open the door, he walked out of the hotel.

--------

Connor wasn't sure how he felt about Illyria's offer. Tangling with Wolfram and Hart wasn't high on his list of things to do; he still remembered his thrashing at the hands of Hamilton. Even Illyria had reluctantly admitted that he'd beaten her as well. And he could not forget that most of Angel Investigations had _died_ taking them on.

But... if Wolfram and Hart were raiding Council vaults, that meant they were up to something. They were _always_ up to something. Probably something bad. And Illyria... if she wanted to help, wasn't that the kind of behaviour he should be encouraging? Could he really ignore the Council's problems?

It didn't help that these arguments were being presented in his head with his father's voice. That was rather annoying. But Connor was forced to admit that now that the offer had been given, helping Wesley's father was the right thing to do.

Lorne, however, seemed less than thrilled with Illyria's decision. As soon as he had arrived home to the hotel, they had followed their normal pattern of Illyria bluntly stating her intentions, and Connor quickly following up with more diplomatic explanations. Now, Lorne sat behind the desk of the hotel's small office, uncharacteristically silent, watching the two of them. Though Connor could never remember being intimidated by the singer in either of his lives, he squirmed slightly under the scrutiny.

Connor and Marc sat in the nearby chairs along the wall, and Illyria was standing in front of the desk, arms crossed. Marc, for his part, slouched in his seat, slightly confused by the discussion.

After a few long moments, the green demon finally spoke. "Are you you two out of your minds?"

Illyria actually gaped at him, though whether it was because she couldn't believe he would be against her helping, or merely couldn't believe he would risk insulting her, Connor couldn't tell. "What?"

"Do I have to remind you to of what happened the last time we picked a fight with Wolfram and Hart? Why would you willingly walk into something like that again? Especially for the sake of an organization that I can guarantee has nothing but contempt for everyone in this room?"

"Wolfram and Hart is our enemy, and their machinations are concern to us all," Illyria replied sternly. Connor noticed she'd used the common name for the firm. "If they feel confident enough to act against the Slayers' handlers even after their recent losses, it behoves us to learn of their intentions."

"I don't think this has anything to do with the Watcher's Council. I think you want another shot at Wolfram and Hart. They hurt you, and you want to hurt them back. And you...", he pointed at Connor. "Hasn't Wolfram and Hart shown enough disturbing interest in you in the past? Shouldn't you be trying to stay _off_ their radar?"

The demoness' nostrils flared in her annoyance. "I know the tactics of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. They are simple and foolish, but they remember. If you think they have forgotten us just because we do not act against them, you are mistaken."

"I just don't want us to make ourselves a problem they have to deal with!"

"All humanity is a problem they feel they must deal with!" she retorted. "They seek to grind it away – along with its 'sympathizers' – like the waves against the shore. You may ignore them if you wish, but the water continues to flow."

Lorne closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Why can't I get you into songwriting?" He dropped his hand onto the table. "Why are you so eager to do this? What do you care what happens to the Council? They treated Wesley badly, you know."

"Regardless of how they had treated him," she replied, "it is what Wesley would have done."

He sighed, and Connor sensed that Illyria had just made her case. There was a long pause as Lorne thought, and Connor threw a glance to Marc, who was watching Illyria with interest. She was relatively subdued, a side the young student didn't often see.

"How do you plan to do this?" Lorne finally asked.

"We must wait for the information from Roger before we can plan adequately," Illyria replied. "We must learn what these thefts are taking, the commonalities. Other than the possibility that they merely wish to further weaken the Watcher's Council, we must determine what they have to gain."

"I think the Watchers could have done all that themselves, Leery," he pointed out. "It _was_ their stuff, after all. And they have access to a lot of research materials."

"We have access to underground resources they do not. Their bigotry, as you have pointed out, prevents them from making use of the demon community. Also, their obsolescent methodologies seem to inhibit them from even making use of such external help. I am surprised that Roger was willing to permit us to assist."

The irony of the Ancient declaring anyone else to be stuck in the past was lost on no one in the room except perhaps herself. Lorne shot the two young men a warning look before either of them could say something that could get them injured. Connor just raised his eyebrows; Marc rubbed his throat and coughed.

"I really don't think we can take Wolfram and Hart on directly. We're _not_ A.I.," Connor pointed out. "I mean, look at what happened with Or'saa. We barely made it out of that one."

"Good point," Lorne agreed. "This is really starting to sound like a real investigation, Columbo-style. Unfortunately, we've lost all our resident trench coat wearing members. We'd need help ourselves, preferably the professional investigator type."

Illyria considered. An aspect threw up a name and face: Landon. The human police officer who the Universe seemed to be throwing into their path so often.

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "we should seek assistance from the humans. Perhaps we should follow the example set by Angel, and involve humanity in its own affairs."

"Working within the law?" Marc mused. "What kind of vigilante superheros are we?" At Illyria's frown he amended, "...You. Are you. Where 'you' does not include me, no sir."

Connor regarded the demoness, wondering if he was reading the thoughtful look on her face correctly. "You have someone in mind?"

"Sergeant Landon, who we have encountered before."

"A cop?" he asked, surprised. "Why?"

"We have met him before, and worked together to stop a common foe. I believe this will make him more inclined to deal with us."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Connor said, dubiously. "They don't tend to like it when you intrude on their turf, and we've definitely done that."

Her eyes narrowed in response. "They would ignore the threat of a demonic organization plotting against your species?"

He shrugged. "That's just it. It might be _too_ big for him and his superiors to grasp."

The support came, to Connor's surprise, from Lorne. "I think she's right. It's probably best to introduce this to someone official. This Landon fellow would probably be one of the few to take us seriously, since he's seen you in action." He looked meaningfully at Illyria. "But Connor has a point, this might be too much for one sergeant. It might be enough, though, to get him to present the idea seriously to his superiors."

Illyria nodded, almost pleased. "Yes, a chain of command."

"All right," Lorne announced. "Who is the lucky one to go to the cops with this? Will my tremendous interpersonal skills be required?"

"No, it's best if I go," Connor replied, reluctantly. "Lorne, I don't know how they'd react to you. Marc, you don't know the details. And Illyria, they'd arrest you on the spot."

"They would try," she replied dangerously.

Connor held up a hand, indicating her while speaking to Lorne. "And that's exactly why. They've got my name already, so I'm not really giving up anything new to them."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "They could arrest you."

The vampire's son shrugged. "For what? Being caught up in Or'saa's mess? The most they could blame me for is not telling them about it beforehand, and even then... tell them what?"

Lorne sighed. "Okay, then. When will you go?"

"We'll need to see Mr. Pryce's information first, so we know what we're dealing with. I'm off the day after tomorrow, I'll make some calls and go see him then."

Sitting back in his chair, Connor rubbed his chin, trying to think of what he could say to this cop to make him take him seriously. Marc and Lorne watched him with worry; Illyria merely stood where she always had, arms crossed. For a moment, she seemed to be looking inward.

"Good luck," she said. The words were almost whispered, as if she was just remembering what to say, but they were easily heard in the quiet of the dark office. Then, before anyone could grasp their significance, she spun on one booted heel, and strode out of the office, back straight.


	14. Jurisdiction

Connor looked up at the police station, the strong red brick of the building oddly both welcoming and forbidding at the same time. Despite what he had imagined, there was not a steady stream of grim-faced policemen towing angry criminals in and out of the front of the building; although there were a few uniformed officers, most of the people coming and going wore ordinary clothes, and none looked more harried than the average business person.

Still, the young meta-human found himself oddly nervous as he stood at the bottom of the short, wide steps of the precinct, one hand squeezing the black-painted banister which led up toward the quadruple steel doors at the front of the building. A stout, bald businessman, dressed professionally in a dark suit, brushed by him, a parking ticket clutched in one hand, chatting via cellphone on the other.

Connor had never really had any encounters with the police before. He was the 'good kid'. He was a safe driver; he always left parties before they got too wild and booze-soaked. Before he came to Los Angeles, the biggest thing he'd had to deal with was the one time his little sister was brought home by an officer because she and a friend had shoplifted a CD. He hadn't even told his parents about that one, so long as she never did it again.

Of course, that was all a lie, thanks to a Wolfram and Hart sorcerer. He'd been living in a hell dimension when he was fifteen, not helping protect a little sister. He'd nearly killed a cop in a fit of insane rage the night Jasmine fell. Maybe that was why he was so afraid to enter this building... afraid that some file or video would have escaped Vail's magic, that he'd be pointed out as the lunatic who'd strapped bombs to the terrified shoppers of a sports store.

He loved his revised life, and was determined to continue living it as best as he could. But that didn't mean some dark, pessimistic part of him wasn't always waiting for it to come crashing down.

Sighing, he adjusted his ever-present knapsack on his right shoulder, and released the banister, where his nervous left hand had begun to remove the paint and warp the metal. Hand forward on the rail, foot up to the next step, he pulled himself forward toward the building to accomplish his mission. The day was warm, the Los Angeles temperatures barely affected by the arrival of autumn, and so a couple of the doors had been propped open, to improve airflow and seem more welcoming.

The interior of the building further defied Connor's expectations. He'd thought to see a dimly lit open office full of desks, with harried officers manning the front, and a lineup of toughs along the wall wearing handcuffs, tattoos, and menacing expressions. Instead, the area was well-lit, the tiled floor polished and bright. The long front counter was made of a perfectly businesslike maroon particleboard, and was occupied by two men, a heavyset older man and a younger, barely older than Connor. Both seemed pleasant – or, at least, not menacing – and the younger clerk smiled as he helped the businessman who had passed Connor earlier pay off his parking ticket.

There was no scurrying around the area, no hard-assed captain bellowing at an underling from an office. The only sign of a potential hardened criminal was a street punk, his pants baggy and ball cap on backwards, sitting in handcuffs beside a desk just behind the counter – his expression disinterested while the cop beside him filled out paperwork. The rest of the large space was hidden behind normal office cubicle dividers.

Overall, Connor felt more like he was visiting a bank to open an account than entering a centre of law enforcement to report a possible conspiracy against mankind. Unsure of what to do, he walked up to the older man who was looking over forms on his section of the counter.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, even before Connor could draw a breath. His eyes didn't leave the paper in front of him.

"Um... Is there a Sergeant Landon who's stationed here? I think he's on the SWAT team?"

That got the man's attention, his eyes flickering up to regard the student. His only reaction was to raise his eyebrows. "Yeah, he's here. Do you have business with him?"

"Yeah, I've got some information for him, regarding some cases he was involved with."

"Is he expecting you?"

"Uh," Connor hesitated. "Probably not."

The officer dropped the paper, leaning back to look at Connor from beneath lidded eyes. "What's your name?"

"Connor Reilly."

For an irrational moment, Connor feared the man would type his name into the small computer next to him, coming up with arrest warrants and wanted notices and worse. Instead, the officer picked up his phone, dialling three numbers with a thick ring finger. Connor's unnatural hearing heard the line immediately go to voice mail, and the man twisted his large frame to lean and look down the narrow corridor that extended between the cubicles behind him. He turned back and dropped the phone back into its cradle.

He looked at Connor speculatively, and the young man expected to be asked to wait. Instead, apparently judging the sloppily-dressed boy to be no threat, he jerked a thumb in the direction he had just faced. "Just down there, fourth cube on your right," he instructed. "Leave your bag here."

Connor nodded and handed over his knapsack, which the officer placed under the counter. He was allowed around, and followed the officer's pointing hand toward the back of the large room, keeping his hands securely in his pockets, but feeling the man's eyes on his back as he walked.

The typical thin office carpet made his sneakered steps noiseless, and the cubicle dividers muffled sound, but the son of a vampire could hear numerous conversations and ringing telephones amongst the hidden desks. While each cubicle had a silver nameplate with the resident officer's name and position, it turned out that Connor could have navigated to Landon's cubicle by sound alone, as he heard the man arguing in frustrated tones over the phone.

He came to a stop just outside the sergeant's cubicle, the uniformed man not noticing him as he remonstrated with his opponent on the other end. One hand gestured violently in front of him.

"_Of course_ I gagged him! He had _fangs_! He was trying to bite my officers!" He paused, listening incredulously to the other side. "Civil rights complaint? What... 'North American Demon Society'? _N.A.D.S?_ Are you bullshitting me?" Landon's face began to turn bright scarlet, making his pale brush-cut even more stark. "Wha-... Agh! Ju-... Let them file the goddamned complaint! Jesus Christ!" With that, the officer slammed the phone into its cradle with impressive force.

He leaned his face into his fists without looking at Connor. "What?" he said angrily from behind them.

"Rough day?"

"Isn't that insightful! You must-" Landon stopped suddenly, as he finally looked up and saw who had spoken. He said nothing, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his upper lip. Connor's nervousness grew along with the silence, until the officer finally spoke. "Well. A visitor."

"Yeah... uh... hi." Connor couldn't help but wince at his own inane words. He'd rehearsed in his head a dozen patterns for this conversation, but he couldn't remember a damned one.

"Just you? No... 'friends' along?"

"Just me."

"Sit."

Connor obeyed almost before realizing it, taking a small chair which occupied the near corner of the cubicle. He ended up with his back facing the open corridor, which didn't help his nerves any. Landon, meanwhile, popped open the heavy sliding drawer of his desk with a snap, briefly refiling the contents and plucking out a folder. He kicked the drawer closed, tossing the folder onto the younger man's lap.

Connor looked down, and saw the file clearly labelled 'Connor Reilly', alongside a number. It looked a lot like the kind of files he had dug out of the Hyperion, but had never had a chance to hand over to the police. His heart jumped into his throat.

Landon noticed his discomfort. "Some people leave a lasting impression," he said, as if in explanation. "Can you believe you didn't even have a file until I opened one up? Not that it's all that great a read. Med student, no priors. Good upbringing. Father does real estate, mother is an aide to the hometown mayor. Dirtiest thing anyone could find anywhere in your family was your older sister's pot conviction years ago." He leaned on his desk with one arm, tapping a finger. His voice became low. "Nothing at all to indicate why you'd be hanging around with a potentially dangerous nonhuman currently suspected to have some connection with the freak attack near the university campus."

Landon's tone was stern and meant to invoke worry, but Connor was oddly relieved. _They had no file._ His earlier fears were proven baseless. _Wait..._ "Heather was busted for pot?" He blinked.

The sergeant was annoyed by Connor's reaction. "Do you not get how serious this is?" he asked, sharply. "You're connected with a 'woman'" - Connor heard the quotes - " considered at best a vigilante, at worst a possible terrorist. The FBI is interested in her, and so is Homeland Security. It is not in your best interest for you to be associated with her, do you understand?"

Although he had expected that to be pointed out, Connor couldn't help but protest anyway. "She helped you stop that monster. She got _shot_ doing it!"

"And the spooks seem to think she had some relation to the creature in the first place. That she didn't do it to be a good citizen, she did it because he was a potential rival. Are you going to contradict that?"

Connor really couldn't, since Illyria's motivations were ambiguous at the best of times. He put forth what little he did know. "She did it to help me, so that I wouldn't be taking it on alone."

That was the wrong answer. Landon scowled. "So you it was going to happen beforehand."

"We knew Aidan and his friends were going to try."

"And you didn't think this was something you should perhaps tell the authorities?" the cop snarled.

"Tell you what? Some dumb-ass friend of a friend planned on summoning a demon out of a statue older than civilization? With no proof at all? Would I have even gotten past the front desk?"

"You wouldn't believe the kind of shit the people around here will believe, nowadays."

Connor took a breath. "Well, that's good. 'Cause I'm here now."

Landon was an intelligent man. He picked up the significance of Connor's phrasing immediately, and his anger disappeared beneath curiosity and slight worry. Finally began to wonder why the student would have appeared at his door in the first place. "What? What do you mean?" Eyes narrowed. "Why _are_ you here, anyway?"

Worrying the zipper of his light jacket – a nervous habit he'd obtained along with his new set of memories - Connor took a moment to phrase things in his head. "Me and Illyria, we were just approached by a fellow from an organization in England. This... group, they've known about demons and magic for a long time, and in fact they've worked pretty hard to keep it all hidden. They've apparently got storehouses all across the world, where they keep dangerous magical artifacts and the like hidden away. Things like ancient statues with monsters hidden inside," he added, insuring he had Landon's full attention. "Problem is, some of these storehouses have been broken into and the contents stolen. In at least one case, a guard was murdered. In Georgia."

The officer leaned back in his chair and rubbed his mouth again. Connor was relieved to see that he was at least taking him serious. "Why did this person come to you? This is a matter for the FBI, or maybe even CIA or Interpol."

Connor shook his head. "This organization – the Watcher's Council – doesn't trust government. They've operated pretty much from the shadows for hundreds of years. They came to me mostly by accident... the hotel I own now belonged to a private investigator group-"

"Angel Investigations."

That Landon would know details like that, and be able to remember them so easily, unnerved him. "Uh... yeah. Anyway, one of the employees of A.I. used to be a Watcher. He was kicked out, so they thought there was a possibility he was the security leak. But we know he couldn't be responsible."

"Why not?"

"'Cause he's dead. He was killed the night of the demon attack."

"That doesn't mean he didn't spill the beans before then, or write it all down somewhere."

Connor remembered Wesley's meticulously-kept journals and notes. "That's true," he admitted unhappily. "But he understood the importance of secrets, too. I don't think he would have done something like that."

"So you knew him?"

"Not that well. It's... a bit of a tale, I can tell it to you later. Illyria knew him better."

"Okay. Now..." Landon leaned back, lightly swinging his chair back and forth indolently. "Why did you come to me with this?"

"Mostly because we knew your name. It was Illyria's suggestion, believe it or not. I think she likes you – as much as she likes anyone, that is. We want to help this guy, but the group we think is responsible is too big, too powerful for us to take on alone. We need help, and I'd rather we do it properly, rather than vigilante-style."

"Good of you to think that. Who is this 'group'?"

"This is where you get upset."

"Try me."

"Wolfram and Hart."

"Wolfram-" Landon's eyes went big. His chair came upright with a thump. "_Wolfram and Hart_? The _law_ firm?"

Connor realized that they could probably be heard from the neighbouring cubicles. Although it was likely not unusual to hear the names of law firms being exclaimed around a police precinct, he waved his hand to quiet Landon. "Yes, them."

"You've gotta be joking."

"I'm not. They're more than a law firm. They're mixed up into all kinds of dirty stuff. They do anything for profit, and I do mean _anything_."

"And this is unusual, how?"

"Most law firms don't do assassinations, mind control, or torture on behalf of their clients."

Landon was looking increasingly sceptical. His expression seemed to imply the young man had shifted from a case and possible problem to a source of entertainment. Connor fought to keep his temper. "I'm not joking!"

Landon smirked. "It might be worse if you're not. How would you know all this?"

"I've had dealings with them before. Bad ones. Plus," he leaned forward, his expression serious, "I was _there_. That night. I wasn't in the alley, but I was at the office of Wolfram and Hart. I helped my... _Angel_ fight the agent of the Senior Partners. We barely came out of it alive. And when we did, that's when the Senior Partners decided to finish Angel and his teammates off, in the alley."

The cop's expression darkened. For all that Landon was fair-haired and fair-skinned, and Connor was probably much stronger, the older man could appear menacing when he wanted. "You're saying Wolfram and Hart was responsible for the alley massacre."

"I'm saying they're responsible for all that, and more. I don't think they meant to show their hand that night, and they backed off a bit after, but they're not ones to waste an opportunity. The world's all twisted up in knots after learning about magic and demons and vampires, and Wolfram and Hart is taking advantage of the confusion."

"Do you have any proof of this?"

"Only witness accounts... myself, a demon friend, and Illyria. She could be considered evidence herself, since she was released by a Wolfram and Hart employee." Connor paused for a moment, considering what he was about to say. "A woman was killed to bring her back to life. You can ask her, she'll confirm that."

There was another long pause. Landon leaned back in his chair, rubbing his upper lip, looking sideways at his desk. For a moment, Connor imagined he was like Illyria for a moment, capable of seeing the emotional auras of people; the sergeant fairly crackled with thought and frustration as he ran the situation through his mind, considering what could or couldn't be done with the information Connor had given him.

Finally he sighed, looking back at Connor. "Look, Mister Reilly," he said, "this really is a matter for the FBI. If you were talking about the actions of an individual, or a group of individuals, I could help you. But you're talking about an entire company, one with multinational interests. I can refer you to an agent, or take a statement and relay it-"

Connor shook his head. "That isn't going to work. Is some generic federal spook going to take a student and two demons seriously? And I'm not sure Illyria would be willing to work with someone like that."

"You may not have any choice in the matter."

"Can't you investigate on behalf of the FBI or whoever and turn over evidence to them?"

"Government organizations don't like to split jurisdiction like that. And even if I could swing it, I wouldn't be the one assigned. I'm SWAT... not Major Crime. We don't do investigation. We come in and take the bad guys once the investigation's done... usually with a lot of noise."

"What'd you do before getting into SWAT?"

Landon looked at Connor warily. "Drug enforcement."

"So you know how it's all done. Ask your boss for a temporary assignment. Don't mention Wolfram and Hart, because we're honestly not sure of that yet. Tell him you've got a witness who's only willing to work with you, that you've got a line on some big takedown."

"You've been watching too many movies," Landon replied dryly.

"Probably," he agreed. "Look, I want to do this the right way. I'm not an investigator the way Angel and his team were, I've figured that out. We don't have the kind of contacts and resources they did, so we need help. And I'd rather help from a person who's seen the same things we have, and isn't some black-suit-type from Washington who's just as likely to lock up Illyria and Lorne as look at them."

"I'll see what I can do, but don't get your hopes up. I have a team to run here. The most you might get is maybe one of my guys being assigned to you instead, maybe as a liaison or fr-... _demon_ consultant."

It was Connor's turn to sigh. "Okay, if that's what we can get. Illyria might be willing to work with someone she considers under your command."

"Good." Landon stood, and Connor understood that he'd done as much as he could hope to do.

The sergeant led Connor back toward the front desk, where the older cop nodded toward Landon, leaning down with a huff to fetch Connor's knapsack. Connor took it without comment and slung it back over his shoulder. The front area was oddly silent. Even the punk, sitting in the same spot before, handcuffs still in place, had lost his baise attitude and was watching the front entrance with interest.

To Connor's surprise, on the other side of the front desk two armoured officers were leading a demon in from the front door. The tall, lanky figure of a Vos demon stood between the two men, and neither human looked particularly pleased as they guided the black-scaled figure over toward the plastic bucket seats along the front wall of the station. The Vos was dressed in track pants and a white tank top; if not for the alien colour and texture of his flesh, and the cat-like eyes over the wide, lipless mouth, the creature could have been any human punk off television episode.

The demon was watched by all the humans with varying amounts of discomfort, distaste, and outright hostility. Only the older clerk seemed to not care one way or the other. Connor glanced sideways at Landon; the larger man was glaring at the demon as well, his face darkened into a scowl that could mean anything. For a moment Connor worried about exposing himself and his friends to this person.

The Vos was plunked down into the seats none too gently, and the creature hissed at the officers as his hands, cuffed behind his back, were pinched between himself and the chair. The officers gave no indication of caring.

Hands bound behind his back... a Vos demon... something tickled at Connor's mind. Something Holtz had told him. He couldn't quite remember...

"If you have any written information, I'd appreciate it if you could send me a copy," Landon said, interrupting his thoughts. "It'd be better if you could convince this Watcher person to talk to me directly, but I won't count on that. Either way, I'll try to let you know where the department wants to take this before next week. This is my direct line, so you can contact me."

The sergeant had plucked a card from a tray on the counter and was offering it to him. Connor took it without looking at it. "Okay. Thanks."

Landon nodded, and stepped back as Connor made his way around the front desk toward the exit. As he walked past the sitting demon, the young man continued to search his memories. It bothered him, when he knew he should remember something but couldn't. Granted, these memories were from his time in a hell dimension, and Holtz wasn't exactly a kind and loving parental figure, so he didn't normally have much motivation, but...

A firm reminder only took a fraction of a second. The Vos, noting Connor's unassuming appearance and distraction, surged up from his seat as the young man passed by. The creature's unnaturally flexible joints easily allowed him to bring his hands up over his head, and those same hands fell over Connor's head, the chain of the handcuffs landing around his throat. The Vos didn't bother trying to garrote the human; instead, long claws slid from his fingertips, and their points pinched Connor's carotid as he was roughly pulled back against the demon.

"_Remember this, Stephen... The Vos are social creatures, but they despise weakness amongst their own as much as they hate humankind. You can use this to your advantage, wounding one and using it to lure the others out. But they are slippery creatures, and you must take care as to the means you use to bind them..."_

_Gee, thanks Father._ Connor berated Holtz and himself in his own mind, angry at his own carelessness.

The station rang with angry shouts and clicks, and Connor found nearly half a dozen guns aimed at the Vos – and at himself, the human shield. One of the cops who had escorted the Vos in had come back around the front desk, his weapon drawn, shouting at the creature to step away. Landon, weaponless, had his hands raised and was yelling at the officers who had begun to boil up out of the offices and cubicles of the station to keep away.

The sergeant was apparently the senior officer on the spot for the moment, as the others backed away at his order. The armoured officer who was shouting orders at the Vos – the balding, angry cop Connor remembered from the magic shop incident – quieted as Landon put a hand on his shoulder. The hostility did not disappear from his face, though, nor did his weapon drop.

With gestures, Landon brought the station to a tense, angry silence. He turned to the demon, pointing one accusing finger. "Let go of the kid," he commanded. "You're not doing anything except making things worse for yourself."

"Keys!" the Vos demanded, the 's' long and snake-like. "Keys to handcuffs, I leave, or prettyboys learn to breathe through neck!" He shook Connor slightly by the grip on his throat to emphasize his threat, evidentially found his own comment quite amusing. He laughed, expelling hissing puffs of breath past Connor's ear. "Breathe like _Hrr'kins_, yes? Except much smellier."

Connor had been threatened by better. And being declared smelly by a demon that normally lived in sewers didn't carry too much weight. But... _prettyboy?_ Against the pressure on his throat, Connor managed to growl. "Boy, did you ever pick the wrong hostage."

Faster than any human could move, Connor dropped his knapsack, and his hand speared up between himself and the Vos' arm, pulling it away and pinning it down before the claws could pierce the skin of his neck. His other arm parried a grab from the other side, the Vos' reactions pathetically slow and weak compared to what Illyria subjected the young man to during their sparring sessions. Connor stepped out and spun, a backfist arcing up, catching the demon with such force that he was lifted and cartwheeled through the air. He came crashing down on the bench of cheap plastic bucket seats – surprisingly cracking only one – and slid bonelessly onto the floor.

For a moment, Connor wanted to finish it. To grab the demon's head and twist – one final, violent movement that would remove the threat forever. A surge of xenophobia that made pale the reactions of the humans around him. It was the old Connor; hateful of everything, shouting from the depths of his mind with such volume that the young man actually stepped forward, hands flexing.

But old Connor was gone, and new Connor was in charge now. He shook the feeling away almost physically, making of his motion a check for the demon's pulse. It was there, as he knew it would be. Vos demons didn't keep anything particularly important in their heads.

"He's fine, just out," he explained to the incredulous police officers, stepping away.

The uniformed humans continued to stare at him for a moment, until Landon, standing just beside the front desk, broke from his own trance and roughly shoved the officer next to him. "Pick him up! Use a waist chain, damnit!" The officer rushed to obey, holstering his pistol, face flushing red.

In moments, the demon was being hauled up, a heavy metal chain wrapping around his waist to further secure his arms. Not taking any chances, the men added in some leg irons which also attached to the waist restraint. The officers of the law all seemed too embarrassed that the situation had occurred in the first place to question how a young man, not even of legal drinking age, had dealt with it so quickly.

All but one, that is. Landon was watching Connor with a speculative look.

The young meta-human shifted his weight from foot to foot nervously. "So... uh... do you need me to stay here and give a statement or report or something?" Connor asked, trying to divert his attention. "I don't know what the usual post-hostage-taking procedure is." _Yeah, I used to be the one taking the hostages, and my father used huge magic to bail me out of it..._

"No, I think we have enough witnesses here," the cop replied dryly. "As long as you're not hurt, I'll let you go. I'll call you if we need more."

"Great. Uh... give me a call." Connor bent down and grabbed his knapsack, tossing it over his shoulder. He turned and left the station, trying to avoid looking too hurried. Regardless, he felt Landon's eyes on his back as he left.


	15. Uneasy Partnership

"My God, man... how can you look at that?"

"What? It's a human heart. Didn't you ever take high school bio?"

"The only biology I was interested in in high school belonged to Jessica Hawking. And I may have been interested in her chest, but only the outer parts."

Connor rolled his eyes and shut his textbook, jamming in a piece of note-scribbled paper to mark his spot. He looked up at Marc, who stood over him as he lay sprawled across one of the not-quite-new couches which the two young men had added to the lobby of the Hyperion. "You know, you don't _have_ to read my textbooks. Don't you have a thesis due?"

"I'm taking a break," the theology student sniffed. "I don't want to get carpal tunnel, after all."

"Repetitive motion injury requires repetitive motion," Illyria commented blandly from the settee, without looking up from the newspaper she read. "You have averaged one word per minute for the past three hours. At that rate, your thesis will not be finished before solstice."

Marc knew better than to question how she would know how many words he'd typed so far. "It's just a milestone point, not the actual paper due date," he defended. "I've got plenty of time. The prof won't be annoyed."

She glanced up at him. "Considering your extensive questioning of me for your research material, _I_ will be annoyed if it does not produce a tangible result."

For Illyria, 'annoyed' could mean anything from a glare to mass murder. Marc, wisely, chose not to risk it. "Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"That is wise."

It was a quiet, late Tuesday morning, and the three of them were enjoying it milling about the lobby of the hotel. Marc dodged working on his thesis; Connor took the opportunity to study. There were – thankfully – no football games airing, so Illyria sat quietly on the settee, reading a newspaper Connor had given her after promising another visit to the library later that afternoon. The rear door to the garden was propped open, letting warm air and the scent of the plants circulate through the lobby. Connor, who didn't share his father's fondness for artificial light, had the lobby lights turned off. More than enough sunshine reflected in from the outside to make reading comfortable, painting the walls and marble floor in fuzzy-edged strips of shade and shine.

It was oddly saccharine from Connor's point of view. The two young men doing homework; the older woman sitting quietly in the reflected sunlight from outside, reading a newspaper and mildly scolding them whenever they would begin to goof off. It was like something from an idyllic fifties television show. Illyria even sat like a Hollywood-manufactured woman from that era; back ramrod straight, knees and heels locked firmly together. He could picture her in a white blouse and ankle-length powder-blue skirt, hair done up demurely... and didn't _that_ warp his brain.

It was good to see her relaxed, or as relaxed as she ever allowed herself to be. She had been a live wire ever since Roger Wyndham-Pryce's visit, barely resisting the urge to assault Wolfram and Hart by herself. Although actually coming out to say they needed help was a monumental step for the former god-king, the dependence on outsiders still grated on her. Connor suspected the body count of her nighttime roaming was higher than usual. But as long as they were vampires or demons preying on innocents, he didn't care. It wasn't as if he hadn't used that form of anger management himself.

Connor could understand the feeling; it was annoying, sitting around when he knew Wolfram and Hart was up to something. But at the same time, what could they do? Four people taking on an entire evil corporation wasn't just futile, it was suicide. If Illyria could admit that, so could he. They'd done what they could, handing evidence over to the police and pointing them in the right direction.

They'd shown some faith in humanity's ability to deal with its own problems. Just like Angel.

Roger, in contrast, had no such faith. He'd become infuriated when he learned that they had gone to the police with the evidence he'd given them. His English stoicism had cracked, and he had turned red and livid, ranting in a quiet but intense voice about how humans were meant to be shielded from such things, and no government could possibly understand how to cope, and how _dare_ they assume to know what was best for humanity, when there was barely a shred of humanity shared between the lot of them?

The Englishman's comments against Illyria had turned vicious enough that Connor worried the man wouldn't survive them. To his relief – and shock – the Ancient had barely reacted at all, regarding the Watcher as if he was less important than an insect; an expression of satisfaction, imperceptible to those who didn't know her, visible on her face. Eventually Roger seemed to realize his arguments and veiled insults were affecting her about as much as they would a stone Buddha, and he had stomped out of the hotel indignantly.

Connor had commended her for keeping her temper. Illyria had replied that Roger's disapproval was a good sign that they had made the right choice, an oddly spiteful comment coming from an Old One.

The Watcher's abandonment meant that in terms of help they could only rely on Landon and what he could provide, and Landon obviously worked on his own time, not theirs. So they waited until he provided a response, doing the only things they could do: Marc and Connor worked on their homework, Lorne wheeled, dealed, and jet-setted, and Illyria read, watched television, and roamed the night, hunting.

He flipped the page of his textbook, although his mind had long since giving up storing information on cardiovascular systems. He had opted for taking some courses at UCLA, after receiving word from his undergraduate adviser that the credits would count for his degree at Stanford. That'd been an interesting conversation; his adviser had almost been more interested in discussing the "monsters" that supposedly plagued Los Angeles than going over his course options. Eventually he'd gotten a straight answer from the man, and managed to resist telling him that the same creatures could be found all around the Bay Area.

Thinking of home, Connor had a sudden urge for sushi. Maybe raw fish would appeal to Illyria the way pizza and soda didn't. Eventually he was going to crack that attitude of hers and get her to actually eat something – no matter that she claimed it was an activity only needed by lesser creatures, and could lecture at length about the "extra-planar-bleed" source of her energy... or whatever. He was going to see her reaction to a gob of wasabi, if it took the rest of his life to do it.

A sharp rap at the hotel's front door interrupted thoughts of sashimi and green tea. Connor laboured up from the lazy slouch he had perfected an hour before. "Marc, did you order pizza again?"

"_No_, I did _not_," came the aggravated reply from the other side of the check-in counter. "Give it up, would you?" Marc easily made six meals a week of pizza, and this had become something Connor teased the other young man mercilessly over. Connor had no idea how Marc's waistline or his gallbladder – the hybrid insisted vehemently that his innards were one-hundred-percent standard human issue – held up under the assault. Connor figured his friend was in for a nasty awakening by the time he hit twenty-five or so.

He cast an amused smirk in Illyria's direction, but her attention was not on him. Her head was turned, and she stared at the front door. Connor jumped to his feet, rounding the corner to see what had captured her notice.

It was not pizza. On the other side of the glass doors stood Sergeant Landon.

His textbook was tossed onto the couch, forgotten. He dashed up to the doors and opened the unlocked door; seeing that the near-noon sun was casting its rays across the cop's skin, Connor decided to forgo the normal vampire test. "Uh, hi! Come on in."

Uttering a restrained greeting, Landon stepped inside. Thankfully, he wasn't in uniform, so Connor's nerves were eased somewhat. Instead the SWAT commander wore a simple white shirt, stretched taut across his muscled chest, and baggy army-green pants, rife with little pockets. He wore no jacket in the temperate weather, and Connor briefly wondered where the sergeant had his gun, or if he was armed at all.

_He came here expecting Illyria to be nearby_, Connor reminded himself. _Of course he's armed._

"So you're... here. You're..." He was what? Early? Late? How did you greet a police officer on business and try to get a conversation started, without looking like you were guilty of something?

Landon, at least, seemed familiar with this kind of hesitancy, and jumped right to the point. "I had a look over those documents, and had copies sent up to the FBI. I also spoke with the boys in Georgia – they weren't too happy to hear there had been a killing there without it being reported – but they checked the spot out with a warrant and confirmed that something had happened."

"Great, sort-of," Connor said. "So what does that mean?"

The sergeant cast an eye toward Illyria, who had stood and rounded the settee, making her presence known. A frown creased his brow. "It means I've been granted permission to investigate the local incidents. Your notes mentioned a Watcher installation here in the city had been broken into. I want to take a look at it."

"Sure. When?"

"Sooner is better. If one of you can come along, I'd like to take a look at the site now." He shrugged. "I probably should have called beforehand, but this was a spur of the moment thing."

"Oh." Connor blinked. The world had gone from idle straight to ludicrous speed, it seemed.

Landon waved one large hand warningly. "Right now all this is is suspicion of murder in Georgia and an alleged robbery here in California. I'll check out the robbery here, with you as 'consultants', and we'll see what we find. If we connect the dots between the states, it becomes a federal matter and the FBI take over. That's the way it is."

"Okay, so we're not looking to solve anything, just dig up enough to get the higher authorities involved?"

"That's right." He spoke to Connor, but both his tone and his glance indicated Illyria. "Do you think you can hold yourself to that?"

Illyria crossed her arms, unimpressed, but Connor spoke before she could dispense any polysyllabic snark. "Yeah, yeah. That's fine."

"And you realize that if we _do_ manage to get reasonable suspicion, there's a good chance you'll have to answer questions for a federal agent in the course of their own investigation?"

Connor paused, looking at the elephant in the room – the Ancient – with a slight question in his eyes. It was her decision to go forward with this, and neither he nor Lorne had been sure whether or not she'd realized the implications of getting human justice involved. She'd not openly displayed any of the erratic behaviour that had worried them over the past few weeks, but she was still _Illyria_, and Illyria plus government seemed like a dangerous combination.

She already knew his concerns. She met his look, and her expression softened very slightly. Her head dipped in a small nod, blue locks slipping across leather.

"Yeah. We can handle that." Landon nodded in response.

The young man descended the steps, waving the sergeant forward. "Come on in, I'll get the extra copies of the papers we were given. I wouldn't expect much more from the Watcher's Council... they were pretty pissed we went to you about this."

Landon snorted, but followed Connor into the lobby without comment. Angel's son headed behind the counter, where Marc was leaning and listening to the conversation with interest, and began scooping printed papers and handwritten notes into a manila folder. The big man noted Marc's presence but then seemed to dismiss him, turning toward Illyria and leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed. The cop looked Illyria up and down as he unconsciously mirrored her stance, his scrutiny rude – not that she would have cared either way.

"You're looking well for a person who had multiple gunshot wounds just a few weeks ago."

She lifted her chin, looking at Landon defiantly. "I heal quickly."

"Obviously. Pretty slick, that disappearing trick of yours."

She didn't bother replying, her head twitching to an angle at the challenge in his voice.

For long moments, the only sound in the lobby was Connor stuffing sheets of paper and photos together at a rush. Neither the Ancient nor the police officer moved, staring at each other; though Landon appeared languid, leaning against the counter, his muscles were tensed as if he shared the room with a vicious predator. The reptilian brain, some deep inner instinct, remembering fears from ages before; fears that Illyria probably had some legitimate claim to inspiring. The air nearly rippled between them, like above the dark asphalt in the street in front of the Hyperion.

"Let me run upstairs to grab my bag, and I can head out," Connor said as he elbowed past Marc, breaking the tenseness of the room.

"I will accompany him," Illyria countered. He felt his mouth go dry.

"Uh... It's probably best if I go, since-"

"That's fine. I'm sure she can handle it," Landon interrupted. His eyes held no lack of challenge as he looked at the Ancient. "You all know the details of the files, right?"

"Intimately."

Connor felt like he was standing between two trains about to collide. So he did the only thing he could: he bailed. "Well, okay then, if you figure you two can handle it."

"We're not going to be storming a hideout or making arrests," the cop pointed out, taking some mild pity on the young man.

He shrugged with helpless acknowledgement. Behind the counter, Marc looked ready to burst into laughter, until Illyria bared her teeth at him and he hurriedly calmed himself.

Landon turned to his soon-to-be partner. "Let me know when you're ready to head out."

"I am ready now."

One blonde eyebrow rose skeptically. "Aren't you going to attract a lot of attention in that getup? If people see me driving around with a woman in leather, they're going to get the wrong idea."

Illyria _may_ have rolled her eyes for a split second before she tilted her head back, shaking her hair as if casting off rainwater. The blue of her hair and skin faded away, to be replaced with the rich brown locks and lightly tanned skin that constituted her "public" appearance. Her armour rippled, reforming itself into plain faded jeans and a loose white short-sleeved blouse.

For a formerly-genderless being that proclaimed to have little patience for meaningless aesthetics, Illyria had some very _girly_ habits, Connor realized. Her armour represented the ultimate closet. She never imitated the same human clothing twice; and whatever it did produce, even the most casual and comfortable, flattered her. The jeans hugged her legs, and the Victorian-style blouse was cropped just short of her waist, exposing slender midriff.

Where did an ancient demon, a ruthless, god-like world conqueror, get an instinctive taste for human fashion? Connor wondered. He was going to have to ask Lorne what he'd been teaching her.

Landon, of course, had no basis for comparison. He jaw fell open at the transformation, and he stared at her for a few seconds in surprise. She met his eyes with her own cerulean gaze, her irises still their normal ice blue, though slightly toned down to appear more natural.

To his credit, he recovered quickly. "Yeah, that'll work." There was a slight frown on his face, and Connor wondered if perhaps the cop found the idea of a demon imitating a human so well to be more offencive than something truly alien. Maybe his team hadn't run into any vampires yet.

Illyria may have been amused by his reaction, but she only commented, "Good." She tilted her head, her motions still slightly birdlike despite her human appearance. "You have a vehicle? The site of the local incident is a fair distance from here on foot."

"Uh... yeah. Right out front."

"Very well." She spun and marched out the door, a demon-woman on a mission. She may have looked almost ordinary, but there was no mistaking her walk for anything but a queen.

The sergeant stared after her for a moment. "Does she ever smile?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

Marc gave him one anyway. "Sometimes. And if she does... run."

Connor gave his friend another glare as he handed a folder to the cop. "Some photos of the scene when the Watchers found it, some reports, and a copy of the blueprint to the building, including the vault. Are you sure you don't want me along?"

The big man tucked the folder under his arm as he shook his head, his attention still toward the entrance to the hotel. "No. I want to know how well I'm going to be able to work with her, and I won't be able to tell that with you around moderating."

The young man nodded, having already suspected they were being tested. The sergeant wanted to know if Connor was the only thing keeping the Ancient from getting out of control. He wondered if Illyria realized what was going on; that kind of manoeuvring didn't seem like the kind of thing that would slip by her.

"We'll see what we can come up with," Landon remarked, looking at Connor. For a moment Connor felt tall, as if he'd been acknowledged as a leader by another leader. "My cell number is on the card I gave you. You can get hold of me if you need to."

Connor nodded again, and the older man turned and walked up the stairs to the exit, jangling his keys as he pulled them from his pocket.

Marc came to stand beside him as the front door clicked shut. "Well, let's hope she doesn't kill him. That would probably be bad."

Connor rolled his eyes, and tried to pretend that Marc hadn't just said exactly what he'd been thinking. "She knows better than that. They're just investigating a crime scene together, I think they can share a car without-" A thought struck him, and his eyes went wide. "Oh crap!" He dashed up the steps, ignoring Marc's sardonic "that didn't take long" from behind him.

"Sergeant Landon! Landon!" He sprinted past the front gardens, skidding to a stop on the sidewalk and quickly scanning the vehicles parked along the street. He knew they wouldn't have left yet, she wouldn't have _let_ them leave...

He ground to a halt when he saw the vehicle Landon was driving, just a few cars to his right. A large silver Jeep, with big tires and a frame nearly a metre off the ground. An off-roader's dream, though the Jeep's immaculate sheen confessed that it was used more for showboating than trailblazing. Landon himself wasn't in the Jeep yet, his hand still on the opened driver's side door.

Connor didn't care how Landon chose to flaunt his macho nature. The important part was it possessed a soft plastic roof, which was removed and tucked down into the back of the truck in the warmth of the late L.A. morning. Illyria already sat in the passenger's seat, her head turned to watch his interruption, only a slight expression of curiosity visible.

"What is it?" Landon asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh? Um... nothing. False alarm." He walked close and leaned in toward the other man. "Just... uh... keep the roof off for her, okay?"

Landon looked bewildered, but Connor was already retreating back to the hotel, praying it wouldn't rain.

-

Illyria silently observed the human police officer as he manoeuvred his vehicle through the streets of Los Angeles. The wind whipped through her hair, and the vehicle bounced harshly on the high suspension and large tires as the big engine roared at the human's behest. The smell of leather pleased her. It was a strong contrast from Connor's small vehicle, and Illyria found that she was rather enjoying it. She thought it unfortunate that a vehicle such as this was unlikely to ever see battle.

The streets and sidewalks were becoming crowded, the work-time populace beginning to explode out of the offices seeking lunch and running errands. A deli they passed already had a lineup out their door; a woman in a power suit walked swiftly on dress heels, a briefcase in one hand and paper-wrapped pita in the other. Several men in coveralls, stained with unidentifiable substances, chatted and joked as they sipped coffee around a wastebasket. A young man dressed in baggy black clothing, about Connor's age, wound between people on the sidewalk on a skateboard, catching part of Illyria's attention due to his bright blue hair dye.

Just a season before, being surrounded by such a mass of scurrying humanity would have been intolerable for her. Now, she found her interest and curiosity outweighing the revulsion, and the smells and sounds not so offencive. She was adapting, something she'd told Spike was a sign of weakness.

One aspect wondered if it would have been possible for her to do so if she hadn't lost her powers. Another speculated whether she would have done so if she hadn't lost Wesley. Bitter threads of thought, and she shut them down.

The Jeep and the surrounding city only occupied a portion of her mind. Several more were considering the man beside her. She turned slightly in her seat, watching him closely, allowing her stare to be as flat and as disconcerting as she knew it could be.

Landon noticed her scrutiny as he went to change gears, and tried to ignore it. His eyes occasionally glanced over at her as he guided them through the city, obviously already familiar with the path to the Watcher's hideout. Despite herself, Illyria gained a certain amount of what even Spike would have called childish pleasure, watching the human attempt not to squirm beside her.

Of course, she was immeasurably older, so the contest was foregone. "What?" he snapped.

His harsh tone didn't affect her in the slightest. "What did you not tell them?"

"What do you mean?"

Now she did frown, annoyed by his false ignorance. "You are a leader within your organization. You have underlings who require your presence, and you have said to Connor that matters such as this investigation are not suited to your duties nor to your position. And yet you are here. Why?"

Landon concentrated on the road for a moment. "I asked for it."

"Again, why?"

Another pause. And a sigh. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, deciding how much to say. "There's a reorganization going on at the department. At _all_ the departments, really, across the country. New teams are being created, meant to deal specifically with fr-", he visibly corrected himself, "with _demon_ situations."

"And this means what? Why would you be here, and not participating in these changes? Do you disagree with them?"

"Hell no, I don't. It's obvious we need specialized teams. What I don't like is the shoot-first policies being thrown around."

Ah. It was obvious to her now. She sat back in her seat, wearing an almost satisfied look. "Execution squads."

The declaration made Landon wince, but he admitted, "Yeah." He cast glances at her impassive expression. "You don't seem too bothered by this."

"It is expected."

"Eh?"

"I told Connor that such things would come about. Your people have been made aware of a potential threat among you. The situation requires address." Her tone was flat, as if she'd been asked to explain sunshine, or breathing.

"Yes, but _that_ kind of address? I'm not sure how you _demons_ do things, but we're supposed to be better than that."

She nearly took pity on him; his concerns must be strong indeed, if he was willing to mention the matter to her, of all beings. His was the kind of idealism Connor continued to cling to. Wesley, Spike... even Angel had understood better. "Supposed to be. Yet are not. Some things are universal."

The wind flapped her hair around, bringing a few locks across her face, which she ignored. She watched the man through the strands, remembering Wesley's own words about humankind. He had been attempting to impress upon her the importance of remaining hidden, liberally peppered with his agenda of encouraging her to leave this plane forever. "Your world is small, and humans teem across it. Even with so much space, you bump and scrape against each other, killing each other over scraps of land and abstract ideals, as you have for millennia. Now you know of other beings that compete with you for this space, and defy the ideals you value. For once, your aggression can be turned outward."

She could see the muscles in Landon's jaw bunch as he clenched his teeth. Idly, she wondered if he would have reacted the same if it had been another human saying the same thing. She cocked her head at him, her voice almost gentle. "You are a police officer... do you not regularly deal with the unfortunate aspects of your species?"

"I deal with scum, yes," he bit out, and she could tell he was attempting to keep his voice level. "But I also deal with the best. My own team is a great group of people. And Reilly, he seems to be a good kid."

Illyria avoided commenting on several ironies in that statement. Instead, she sat back against her seat as the Jeep rolled to a stop at a red light. "That is good, then."

They waited for the light to turn, the only sound the rumbling of the Jeep's engine and the several vehicles around them. Illyria could feel his eyes on her, but she ignored him in favour of admiring a powerful motorbike in the lane beside her.

"So, you're not going to claim that demons are the same way, that there's good demons just like there's bad demons?"

A small smirk was turned his way. It was the kind of smile she wore when she had sparred with Spike, or while striding triumphant – and ignorant – from Wolfram and Hart, while Angel fell in slow motion from the fiftieth floor. Landon expected her to protest, to make some assertion that she was indeed one of the "good" demons, powerful and perhaps arrogant, but one of humanity's champions, like Angel or the Slayers.

She would make no such claim. Powerful and arrogant she may perhaps be. But she never lied unless it served her in some way.

"'Good' is a relative term," she replied. In front of them, the traffic light had turned green, though Landon did not move his vehicle, instead listening to her. "There are demons just as devoted to the spread of 'good' and order in this realm as there are those who endorse violence and chaos. They act to balance out their inimical brethren. And then there are those who do not care either way; they merely wish to be left alone to live their existences."

"And what kind are you?" Landon questioned.

She paused before answering, as if considering. Behind them, an impatient driver honked his horn.

"I haven't decided yet."

They did not speak for the rest of the trip.


	16. Breadcrumbs and Whiskey

Not all Watchers Council caches were simple facades. While many were, it was acknowledged that not all of the custodians of these locations were interested in simply sitting around, guarding a hidden vault. Almost all were retirees, and a good many wanted to have _something_ to occupy their idle time. And thus occasionally the front to these hidden caches actually _was_ a real, live business.

In Los Angeles, the Watchers had their western US cache hidden under a pet fish store.

"You have got to be kidding," was all Landon said.

Illyria said nothing as she looked at the dark front of _Finnigan's Fins_, but she could only agree.

The sun shone down on the shop, bracketed on either side by a convenience store and a laundry, neither of which appeared to be doing better business than the defunct Watcher's front. The window was protected by a metal cage, like so many others, but it was also tinted with a darkened plastic, serving the dual purpose of helping control the temperatures inside from the sun and making the shop's interior somewhat difficult to see. The plastic had been painted with the shop's name and a pair of smiling cartoon goldfish, which seemed to stare with insipid cheerfulness at Illyria as she sat in the Jeep. She glared back.

The Jeep trembled one last time as Landon turned off the engine. He pulled out the folder Connor had given him, from where it had been jammed between the seat and the door, flipping through the papers to one which had a key to the shop taped to a building diagram. A key that Roger Wyndham-Pryce didn't know they had. Illyria had been very adamant to Connor that they copy the key, since she expected him to confiscate the original after he learned of their seeking help from third parties. He had not disappointed her.

She followed the human as he hopped from the Jeep and approached the store, even closing the vehicle door behind her – in the interests of diplomacy. Besides, she really did approve of the vehicle.

Landon marched up to the shop, and found it locked; he rapped loudly on the wooden door and waited. To no surprise, there was no answer, and after a moment peeking through the window he stuck the copied key into the door and turned it with an audible thunk. It pulled open easily, eliciting a cheerful jingle from some bells over the frame.

As soon as they could fully see inside the shop, it was clear that it was in the process of being abandoned. Though the numerous shelves which lined the walls were filled with glass tanks, all of them were empty, and the smell of salt, plants, and stale water hung in the air. A counter formed a square in the centre of the shop, and a set of plugs showed where the cash register had once sat.

Landon paused as he entered through the door, and turned to look at the door jamb. His fingers traced a wire that ran down the side of the jamb and disappeared into a hole drilled into the frame. A light switch was located on the wall immediately beside the entrance, and his big hand flipped it back and forth several times. Nothing within the shop reacted.

"Hmm," he commented wordlessly, but didn't deign to explain himself.

As he moved further into the shop to examine the main desk, Illyria followed – though she too paused at the threshold to the store, for different reasons.

Roger's notes had said that the store was warded by a coven of witches in the Council's employ. While the Ancient may not have been especially impressed by the magics thrown around by a cadre of humans, she knew that she should have felt something as she passed through the doorway. She lifted her hands, appearing to feel the air, stretching out with her supernatural senses, the innate sensitivity to primal forces which hadn't been entirely torn from her.

Her actions gained Landon's notice. "What are you doing?"

"The wards," she replied. Her right hand stirred the air, making the fine motes of dust in the air spin in the light which shone though the open door. Behind her, a lone pedestrian passed by the shop, giving her an odd look as he walked, but did not stop nor even really seem curious. "There are supposed to be magic spells cast upon the shop to warn of intruders and repel non-human visitors. They should be reacting to me, but I cannot feel them."

"If you say so," he replied.

Illyria didn't bother elaborating further; she realized the concept of true magic was relatively new to his experience, but she had neither the patience nor the inclination to educate him. She felt around the door jamb, tracing the wood with her fingers. Her hand touched the smooth metal of the retaining plate that was part of the lock. Landon looked bemused as she tore the plate out of the wood – and utterly flabbergasted as she popped the small item into her mouth.

She ignored him, closing her eyes. Yes; the iron in the plate had absorbed some of the magics nearby, giving her an almost literal taste of the spells that had been used. The wards had the slightly sweet flavour of protective magics. The incantations were not especially powerful, but well-crafted, indicating considerable skill on the part of the casters. Perhaps the Council's witches were worthy of some respect after all.

The surprise was the spell which had broken them. It was not a strong dispel which had removed them, leaving its bland taste in the metal, but a carefully crafted counter-spell, engineered specifically to defeat the Council's enchantments. The strands of magic left in the metal were not ripped and shredded, but precisely cut, like fabric trimmed by a master tailor.

She spat the plate into her hand and tossed it aside with a quiet clatter upon the tiled floor. "The persons who entered this place came prepared for the protections the Council had in place," she explained to the confused cop. "They knew exactly what magics warded the shop, and had specific countermeasures."

"Which points again to a Council member selling them out," he observed.

"Or the spellcasters who created them," she cautioned.

Landon grunted. "Good to know, anyway." He gestured toward a door in the rear corner which led to the back office. "The basement is supposed to be this way."

She followed him through the "Employees Only" door located in the rear of the shop. A small hallway led to a tiny bathroom to their left, and in front was a large room which apparently doubled as both a lunch and stock room. A small wooden lunch table was tucked into a corner, a small bowl full of sugar packets on top. Beside it was a wooden counter with a steel sink, the varnish of the counter stained with water and coffee, a medium-sized fish tank forgotten on top. The floor was easy-to-clean linoleum, although it too had acquired its share of stains and gouges, from dropped fish food and heavy tanks wheeled in for cleaning.

Half the room was dominated by large steel shelves, most empty, though the lack of dust visible in the dim light indicated they hadn't been unoccupied long. The Watchers who had taken care of the place had likely carried out just their basic and perishable stock, intending to return for the fragile glass tanks out front when they were able. Bags of gravel filled one low shelf, and another was piled with various kinds of fish food, scenting the air even more than the storefront with a dry, cloying odour.

Little light bled back into the room from the shaded front; although she could see, it was not enough for Landon's needs, and he fished into the numerous pockets of his pants for a flashlight. A twist and a bright column of light appeared, and the alien thought ran across Illyria's mind that the officer had probably been a Boy Scout. She fought down an inane urge to ask him, and internally scolded the aspect that had been curious.

He walked confidently past the shelves to the door on the opposite side of the room. Unlike the others, this door was a solid steel variety, set into a metal frame and secured with a deadbolt. He bent over, holding the light near his face, examining the lock for tampering.

While he did so, Illyria scanned around with her better vision. There was nothing obvious to see, although she didn't expect there would be. A faint tinge of magic was detectable in the air, like a perfume, although it was too faint to identify; likely it had been dragged in from the front or up from the basement. Her other senses told her little else.

A shoulder-high palm sat in a large pot beside the entrance. It was likely the plant had barely gotten enough light and attention to survive while the Watchers were present; now, in just a couple of weeks of neglect, most of the leaves had turned brown, and many had fallen off to settle into the dry soil of the pot. For a brief moment, the demoness felt a burst of resentment for the humans and their values of steel and plastic over wood and sap. She reached out a hand to touch the slender trunk, knowing the answers were so close by, if she could hear it bear witness, if she'd hadn't been deafened to the struggling plant's song.

_This is important... It's so beautiful..._

She staggered, nearly tipping over onto the palm. It'd been days since she'd experienced one of the shell's unsolicited memories, and as they went, this one was barely worthy of note. Except for the wave of nausea that was part of it... she would have fallen and vomited into the palm's pot had her vessel's stomach actually had anything in it. She put a hand to the wall, closing her eyes and waiting for the traitorous room to stop spinning.

_Not now, damnit!_ Even her own inner voice sounded different.

"Are you okay?" Landon asked from the direction of the basement door.

The demoness looked up. The human shone his flashlight at her through the shelving. "Point that elsewhere!" she snapped, as the small but bright light dazzled her. "I am fine."

"If you say so," he replied, though his tone was dubious. At least he pointed the light away. She saw him stand upright. "Good lock, solid door. No obvious tampering. Either they had a key or a really good lock pick."

She concentrated on his words. "At this point in time, either could be true."

"Yeah. At least we have a key." He plucked the key from his pocket, and turned it in the door. The deadbolt retracted with a loud 'thunk'. The door scraped the linoleum as the human pulled it open. "Whoa, dark."

She forced her eyes open and pushed away from the wall. Thankfully, the ground had decided to stay in its proper spot, and she was able to walk toward the door without stumbling. Not that Landon would have noticed, as his attention was focused through the door, into the inky blackness of the basement. Without a word, he entered the stairway, disappearing. Illyria paused at the door, making sure the last of her vertigo was gone. Taking a roll down the stairs would do nothing for her shredded dignity.

The air drifting up the steps from below was cool and carried with it the scents of magic, as well as mold and dampness. Faint wisps of enchantments, the remnants of powerful magics, some of them quite dark in nature. Not the Watcher's doing, then – probably the magical shadows of the items which had been stolen from them. A light bulb jutted out from the wall in front of her, but flipping the switch near her right hand did nothing.

She stepped carefully down the flight of concrete stairs, and entered the area that served as the building's basement. The room was dark enough that even she needed to strain to see, and Landon's flashlight barely cut the blackness. The small echo of Landon's steps and the pervading darkness reassured her that the room was decently sized, and that she wouldn't feel the need to punch her way through a wall. The air was slightly chill, slightly unpleasant to the Ancient.

Ahead of her – roughly in the middle of the room, she guessed - there was a thump, and Landon snarled a curse. The white beam of the light waved wildly though the air as he climbed back to his feet. "Christ. I should have brought a bigger light."

Illyria made a noise of agreement, and squinted into the bleak. She could see little more than grey lines against black herself, tracing out the edges of the room. Along the wall closest to her, a shelf, little more than a plank bolted to the wall, ran from the stairs to the corner. Her vision, extending slightly more toward the infrared than a human, managed to show Landon in the far corner as a dim reddish shape.

They could find no clues in this darkness. She moved carefully toward the shelf, not willing to imitate her partner's tumble, and scanned the grey boxes and lumps that filled it. Hopefully, the Watchers would have taken some logical precautions...

"Here," she announced into the darkness. "I require your light."

The beam flashed across her face again, but Landon moved it away before she could begin to snarl. "Find something?"

"A lantern, I believe. Do you have a lighter?"

He did, and it was, and if Illyria had any doubts that the human had been a Boy Scout, they were quickly dismissed as Landon expertly ignited the camping lantern that had sat on the shelf nearest the stairs. He gave her the small flashlight to hold so that he could use both hands, and soon the small butane light was hissing brightness throughout the room, lighting the area more than adequately.

Not that there was much to see. The basement was a concrete box, the floor sealed with a nondescript grey paint and the walls unadorned completely. Other than the shelf which had held the lantern and a stock of various housecleaning supplies, the room showed no sign that it had been used by humans on any regular basis. Dust coated the shelf and floor, and the cinder blocks of the wall had begun to crack, leaking brown water to trickle down the sides of the basement and staining the floor.

The only major feature of the room was the vault. It dominated a quarter of the room, the size of a large elevator, embedded into a corner. Stretching from floor to ceiling, it had obviously been added after the building had been built, as the metal frame was secured to the floor with very large bolts and further reinforced with a brace of poured concrete around the sides. The large door, as tall as Illyria herself, hung wide into the room... a visual admission of the vault's failure.

Illyria looked the construction over with interest. How had the Council gotten it into the basement to begin with? The stairwell wasn't wide enough to allow two people to pass, and the big walls of the vault were taller than Landon. There were no visible welds. Magic? Or just another demonstration of human ingenuity? Regardless, the Ancient allowed herself to be mildly impressed.

"That's a big safe," Landon commented.

"Your investigative skills were not exaggerated," she snarked. She ignored his look of amusement as she stepped forward to examine the vault door.

A large wheel was embedded in the centre, which would extend or retract the heavy steel deadbolts which lined three sides of the door. Just above the wheel were two combination locks, side by side. The one to the right was untouched, but the leftmost dial had a hole the size of Illyria's finger drilled a hand's breadth below it. The hole was obviously new, judging by the shine of the metal inside.

Landon crouched by the lip of the vault. He ran his hand across the floor, and when he brought it back to his face, metal filings had stuck to his fingers. "Two locks. They drilled one, and either the other one wasn't locked, or they had the combination to it or cracked it. Why not drill both, or crack both?"

She had the answer as she held her fingers over the left dial. "The left lock is warded with magic," she replied, feeling the tingle on her fingers. She extended her senses, feeling the isolated but powerful enchantment on the lock. It reached back, oddly aware, yet seemingly confused by her pseudo-humanity – not a human, not an ordinary demon, and not a vampire. As her fingers approached the dial, the magic seemed to tense, and it was easy to visualize an animal, hissing at the approach of a stranger.

Sneaky.

She let her hand fall away. "It is some kind of spell designed to react to non-humans. I would guess it would seal the door in some fairly permanent way if a non-human touched it."

"Really?" The cop seemed genuinely interested. "That's clever. Why not put the same magic on both locks, though?"

She gave him a look; his prejudice and baiting of her had been forgotten now that they were actually examining a crime scene. "Presumably re-opening the safe after the safeguard has been activated is considerable trouble. You would not wish to take such irrevocable action immediately upon someone touching something they should not."

"And why wouldn't the thief just remove that magic like he did upstairs?"

Illyria considered. "It could be he did not expect the ward. Or, he was too drained to attempt more dispelling. Magic is a strain, unless you are a very strong or skilled sorcerer. And I doubt such a being would have need of such - " she waved at the door - " _manual_ labour."

"Hmm," Landon grunted as he shone the lantern over the exterior of the vault. "I wonder how many cold cases are going to be opened back up with 'magic' being taken seriously as a factor."

"Probably a good many. I care about none of them. Let us concentrate on the problem before us."

Landon stepped over and nudged her aside so that he could examine the drilled lock, although he was careful to not actually touch her – their 'camaraderie' only extended so far. Illyria swallowed down the anger that rose at being pushed away; most of her aspects were focused on the investigation, and the puzzle before her gave her a very slight thrill, a sense of excitement. A challenge to her mind instead of her body.

He held the lantern up, looking down the drill hole. "This couldn't have been easy to drill. Iron over a steel core. That's a weird setup."

"Iron repels some supernatural creatures and has some innate magic resistance," she commented.

"Still, this must have taken a few hours to drill out, and a bunch of bits. Especially if he didn't have water cooling. A patient guy. If he went too fast he would have been burning out bits left and right, or breaking them off inside the hole." He ran his finger carefully around the unfiled edge of the hole. "A pro, I'd say."

He stood, and stepped around the door, to shine the lantern into the depths of the empty vault. "A pro doesn't just raid a safe hoping to get lucky. He was after something specific."

"That concurs with the observations of the Watchers," she agreed. "Items were left behind. They did not specify what, but I am given that anything that was stored in this place was valuable or dangerous or both."

"They must have had some kind of inventory."

"Their headquarters was destroyed in a bombing. A great deal of records were lost. It is difficult to say whether they have any idea of what is where, now."

He gave a short growl. "It would have been nice if they'd left the scene as they found it."

This drew a snort from the Ancient. Her voice dripped with distain. "They trust no one but themselves, even in this time of public knowledge and with their numbers decimated. They fight the so-called darkness, but have no love for the scrutiny of day themselves. They would not allow you to see whatever treasures they might have had... and certainly not me."

Illyria stepped around the human. Unlike him, she made a point of laying a hand on his arm to move him aside. To his credit, he did not reel from her touch, although she could tell it discomforted him. She did not let her amusement show on her face as she stepped into the vault, feeling the walls, trying to see if the iron had absorbed any magics from the vault's contents.

There were some trace mystic energies, but nothing identifiable. Landon's mundane senses proved more valuable. "Here we go," he commented, as he plucked a handkerchief from another one of his pockets, and bent down to pluck something from the floor next to the lip of the vault. He stood holding a small piece of steel in his cloth-covered palm. "He broke at least one bit, at least. Must have tossed this to the side. Might be able to get a fingerprint or something off it."

"Let me see," she commanded. Landon frowned, but handed over the helix of steel and the cloth he held it with.

The piece of metal sat in her palm, and for a moment the demoness just stared at it. A lone aspect whispered from the back of her mind, suggesting that there was more here to see. In her mind, she envisioned the thief using the item; he would have been coring into the metal when the shaft snapped. He would have had to reach in and pull the broken part out of the hole, tossing the broken bit to the side...

She lifted the bit to her nose, and sniffed carefully. Scraped metal, the unmistakable scent of rust, sweat, and... _Yes... there you are._

"The perpetrator was not human, or not completely human."

Landon looked at her. "How can you tell that?"

"The scent of his flesh is left behind on the metal. It is not a human scent, but I cannot identify a particular demon breed."

The sergeant watched her, bemused. "Hrmph. Reilly didn't mention you were a bloodhound, too."

She scowled. "It is not a subtle residue. Connor could also have detected it, or any vampire, if they knew to look."

"If the guy wasn't human, that makes dusting for prints a waste of time."

"I would try anyway. Not many demons have fingerprints, but some do. If it was a vampire the prints may be recognizable."

"Okay." Sitting the lantern on the floor, he reclaimed the bit from her, and dropped it into a plastic bag which he fished from another pocket.

She stared at him, head twitching to the side. "How many pockets do you _have_?"

All she got as a reply was a smirk as he handed the bag to her and picked up the lantern.

For another quarter-hour, by Illyria's estimate, they scoured the basement looking for anything else of note. She concentrated on the vault and its innards, using her unique senses, while Landon searched the exterior, his movements and the lantern causing the shadows along the walls to dance.

The demoness was becoming frustrated; she could sense the magics absorbed by the iron, but they were jumbled and diluted. Black magic mixed with white, wards with charms, until she couldn't tell anything apart. Nor could her excellent sense of smell detect anything matching that which she'd sensed on the piece of drill bit, not even enough to tell whether the thief had stepped into the vault at all. So desperate did she become to find something – anything – that at one point she stuck out her shell's tongue and licked the vault wall... after carefully insuring that Landon wouldn't see. She gained nothing but a feeling of foolishness.

Again, it was the sergeant who discovered the next useful clue. "Hey, Il," he called. Illyria responded with a snarl at the irreverent moniker, but stepped out of the vault.

"I can find nothing useful. I do not believe the thief spent a great deal of time within the vault." Spike would have accused her of whining. Then she would have thrown him through a wall. She missed those times.

Landon seemed to pay no mind to the irritated Ancient. "No surprise there... but never mind that." He held up an empty matchbook, carefully held in plastic. "Does this strike you as something a Watcher would leave lying around a shelf with flammable chemicals? Can you do your nose trick with it?"

Illyria sneered at him at 'nose trick'. She was impressed despite herself with Landon's investigative ability, and slightly annoyed that she was being out-performed by a primate. She snatched the bag from him, but hesitated as she reached in; with a thought she shifted to her normal form, her armour oozing across her skin, wrapping its gloves around her fingers. Thus protected, she lifted the matchbook out and took a careful sniff. The cardboard was plain beige, with no markings to indicate where it had come from. But such markings were unneeded, as the little item had a great deal to say that she didn't need her eyes for.

The matchbook was much better than the drill bit; it had spent a much longer time with its owner, and the cardboard was much better at absorbing nearby odours. In fact, it was nearly rank, and Illyria scrunched up her nose in distaste.

"It definitely belonged to the thief. His smell is all over it." She forced herself to take a strong inhale, closing her eyes, attempting to block out the odours of the matches and Landon himself. She didn't like his aftershave; she'd tell him that later.

There – a scent she recognized, one that she would not have detected had she not been so familiar with it already. "Whiskey – not a particularly noble brand. And cigarettes, though I am less sure of that. And..." She paused, unsure of what she detected. She glared at the matchbook with inhuman eyes, as if it was deliberately trying to trick her. "Cats?"

"Cats?" Landon's disbelief was evident in his voice. "Are you kidding?"

Several threads of thought suddenly clamoured for her attention, including the one which had been remembering Spike. The sudden twitch of her head was the equivalent of shouting _eureka_ for the Ancient. "No... _kittens_."

She remembered Spike, and the idiotic card game he had taught her, and encouraged her to play alongside him against several demons in one of the lower levels of Wolfram and Hart. The cigars he and their opponents had insisted on smoking had displeased her, and the game itself was inane and simple. With her perfect memory and senses she had easily won numerous mewling, furry felines for which she had no use. Far more entertaining had been the fight with their demon opponents after she'd loudly declared these facts, though Spike had subjected her to a long, pointless complaint about the subtleties of "card sharking". As if she would ever intentionally lose a battle.

She would never have expected the experience to possess any worth at all. She rounded on Landon. "Some demons engage in a form of poker for recreation... however, they gamble using _kittens_ as the ante."

The man stared at her for a long moment. He shook his head. "Just when I think I have you freaks figured out, you throw something even weirder at me. What do-" He waved his hands, shaking the lantern and making the shadows seem to gesture along with him. "No, wait, I don't want to know. Who cares? What does this have to do with anything?"

"Use your intellect, if you have one," she snapped. "Where is a being likely to engage in drinking, smoking, and gambling?"

The sergeant blinked. "A bar."

"A _demon_ bar," she corrected.

"There are demon bars?"

"Yes, although I don't know how many. At least one was destroyed a few years ago. There may be others."

"Where can we get a list? Do you know how to find these places?"

A dark brow rose, and Illyria felt the first tinge of real accomplishment that she'd experienced in months... or perhaps an age. She looked at the matchbook, the tiny clue which was so important. "I don't. But I know who to ask."


	17. Sociable

Los Angeles was an immense city, with a correspondingly huge human population. So, too, did it have a sizable demon element. A hidden community, lost in the shadows of the tall buildings, hidden in the depths of the underground. A face that didn't seem quite right as you saw it out of the corner of your eye; tales told that nobody could be sure were exaggerated, or understated.

The "Revealing" – as some stodgy scholars in London and Rome had only recently started calling it, much to Marc's disgust ("Lamest. Moniker. Ever!") – had not altered life amongst the demons overmuch. Some found it easier to move about; others found it much, much harder. The diabolically bent did what they always did, preying upon the humans and each other, finding sometimes their victims more prepared than they ever had been before. The good demons, agents of the Powers, went about their business, sure that their actions would speak for themselves.

The majority – those demons who cared not a whit for good nor evil beyond how it effected their daily lives – watched the primates who dominated this modern world, nervously awaiting the inevitable reaction, unsure of what it would be.

Humanity had not had the existence of the supernatural world revealed to them, so much as they _remembered_ something they had always known, but long forgotten. Like the lights coming up in a theatre, only to see that the person you'd been sitting beside, chatting amicably, had a third eye, or blue skin... or claws. The humans blinked, shocked to immobility, unsure of what they were seeing. Traumatic stress disorder on a global scale.

Even humanity itself seemed surprised by how low-key it was taking its re-acquaintance with the supernatural. The fact that the humans were quite obviously the dominant force helped somewhat. Magic specialists, once dismissed as crackpots, claimed that the world itself had been under a powerful spell – cast by anyone from demons to the Vatican, depending on who you asked – meant to keep the populace ignorant, and that spell was just now being shaken off. Religious attendance of all types shot up by over a third, and some speculated that humanity was subconsciously delighted; if demons existed, then _obviously_ the angels and God were out there, too.

And that made the demons even more afraid, knowing what role they would be cast in in that play; waiting for the humans to decide a new _jihad_, a new Crusade, would be a good plan. A righteous war against an enemy who wasn't human, and thus the normal moral restraints wouldn't apply. It didn't help that the first real sight of demons the world had gotten was an army in an alley, battling humans.

Some demons thought that a war was an awesome idea of course, like the demons which had tried to provoke a confrontation at the magic shop some months before. There were other, similar incidents around the world, other attempts to break the staring match. Unlike Los Angeles, those attempts had succeeded beyond the demons' wildest dreams. The humans had snapped out of their trance, so quickly and so violently, that the warmongering demons were wiped out in the blink of an eye, never having the chance to stir things up to cause the kind of cascading reaction they wanted. Other times, those demons met their ends at the hands of their brethren, demons who realized that provoking the fury of the humans could only ever have one end.

All-in-all, it was ironic situation the world found itself in. The lights were on, and boogey-man was real. Now the boogey-man was the one terrified, hiding under his blankets.

It was that atmosphere of impending doom that Illyria and Landon met as they searched for clues amongst the demon bars of Los Angeles.

Consulting Lorne had been very helpful. The green singer was in Las Vegas on a business trip, but some persistence on the telephone by Connor had managed to get him, and their good fortune had continued. As it had turned out, there were very few demon bars in Los Angeles, one of the reasons why _Caritas_ had been so popular and lucrative. In fact, in the entirety of the huge city, there were little more than a dozen bars which catered to the underworld.

Three had been closed down months before, casualties to a suddenly aware and angered human population. Two offered pleasures of a primarily magical nature, and since Illyria had detected no such mystical residue at the vault, they had been removed from the list of possibilities. Two were discarded due to being "upscale" establishments that would never serve low-quality whiskey; another was eliminated for being a small, peaceful bar popular amongst balance demons and the favoured of the Powers... a place that would never serve low-quality patrons. One fell off the list simply because it didn't permit smoking. Landon nearly choked on a bottle of water when that one was mentioned.

Less than two days into their investigation, and they had whittled the list of potentials down to four bars. Fortune favoured them.

It was difficult to say what kind of fortune, however.

--------

"This is an unwise course of action."

Landon sighed. "So you've said. Several times."

"It bears repeating," Illyria replied from beside him.

Together, they walked down a sidewalk in a dark, disreputable part of Los Angeles. The neighbourhood showed the same kind of urban rot as was common in extremely large cities; however, had someone checked, they would notice that the reported crime rate was no-where near what one would expect for such an area. There were mysterious deaths, but next to no theft, no break-and-enters, no shootings.

The petty human thugs knew better than to break into an apartment that was probably occupied by a monster. Gang members who tried to take territory here found themselves changing their colours... after a bite on the neck.

Illyria and Landon strode through the streets with caution. Illyria herself had no fear, but recognized the wisdom in not drawing attention. It was a risk; both she and the human were dressed appropriately for a bar. Her armour had taken the form of tight black leather pants and matching bustier, and her dark hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, an outfit suggested by stolen memories of the Slayer Faith. She knew she presented a very tempting morsel for any vampire.

Nor was Landon any less enticing, his white shirt stretched taut over his broad chest and muscled arms. He towered over her as they walked beside each other, his bulky brown leather jacket making him seem even more massive even as it performed its purpose of hiding the pistol holstered under his left arm. Quite a prize for a vampire, male or female. Even Illyria found his form pleasing, though she hadn't told him – amusing as it might be to get his reaction.

Landon and Connor had pointed out that individually they'd probably be a target... together, they were reasonably safe. The Ancient hadn't wasted the time arguing the point. She had no worries for herself, and protecting the Sergeant was the least of her concerns. The quiet, unspoken objection was that Illyria would be impeded by the excessively-ethical human when dealing with any possible attackers.

She was sure that Connor knew this, judging from the looks he gave her when she had tried to argue for visiting the bar alone.

"Look," Landon said, his voice low, "I know you'd probably like to just walk in and start breaking arms until someone tells you what you want to know." The demoness snorted. She wouldn't bother breaking _arms_. "But we don't know this is the right spot, and you'd end up warning them that someone is looking. This whole gig needs _subtlety_."

"So _you_ will provide this subtlety?" She looked up at the large SWAT commander, whose normal working gear included a machine gun and a string of grenades.

Her implied irony didn't escape him, and he actually smirked at her. "Hey, I've set up stings and done drug purchases before. I can do subtle."

"Connor did not mention this," she replied. A former drug enforcement officer, interesting. She upgraded his potential usefulness. And why did she have a sudden urge to check her socks? She wasn't even wearing any.

Together, they came upon their destination: the demon bar known as _Jack's_. From outside, in the dark Los Angeles night, the bar looked dingy and uninviting, a simple neon sign beside a set of concrete stairs leading down below the street to the basement of the decrepit building. The brick of the building stretched several stories into the starless sky, and gave no indication whether the upper floors were offices, apartments, or even in use at all. The surrounding buildings, apartments at a guess, were equally dark an uninviting, with not a single window illuminated from the inside. Either the builds were all unoccupied, or housed beings which didn't need or want light – it was difficult to say which.

As they watched, a pair of human figures emerged from the stairs, two men, staggering and laughing. It wasn't until they turned slightly into the street lights that their demon faces became visible, and beside her, Illyria felt Landon tense. He did not break stride, though; and the two vampires, well into their cups for so early at night, did not take notice of them, walking off unsteadily in the opposite direction.

Illyria came to a halt some paces away from the entrance to the bar, and Landon stopped to look at her, one pale eyebrow raised.

She met his eyes, dark brown to pale blue. She was already consciously suppressing her alien mannerisms, pulling in her still-considerable aura of power, trying to project the image of nothing more than an ordinary human woman. "If you insist on accompanying me into this place, we must be sure that you understand some things."

"Is this a reminder to play nice? Shake hands? Smile?"

She pursed her lips at his flippancy. "No. By all means, flaunt your bigotry." She ignored the dark look that appeared on his face. "Do not act as prey. This bar is not filled with the 'good' demons we spoke of before. Few would have large designs, but all would have little respect for a human. Strength is their currency, and violence their means." Her expression shifted to something that almost resembled wry amusement. "If I am forced to play the timid human female, you must be the predator."

"Doesn't sound too different from some of the biker bars I've been in."

"I doubt these biker bars would have expected you to kill on a whim." She looked him up and down. "Another thing. You are attractive, for a human. There may be more vampires here. Do not socialize with anything that shows odd interest in your neck."

Blond eyebrows nearly touched the peak of his hair, as once again Landon was rendered speechless. He shook his head, and turned to enter the bar, Illyria falling into step behind him. The door yielded easily to the big man's push, and the two stepped inside.

Immediately Illyria was assaulted with the smell of cigar and cigarette smoke; the pollution hung in the air like a mist, and it was all the demoness could do to avoid coughing. Otherwise, the bar was surprisingly quiet and tidy. Tables and chairs were arranged neatly around the aged wooden floor, and the red and white checkered tablecloths were unstained. Low-hung lights managed to barely keep the gloom away, although there were still plenty of shadowed areas for the comfort of demons offended by light.

As it was still comparatively early in the evening, the bar was not crowded. A vampire couple sat at a table, chatting amicably; Illyria felt it best not to tell Landon that the blood in their glasses was likely human. A cat-like _sti'revor_ of indeterminate gender sat at a booth with a pair of horned _leloth_, its neck fur standing up as it carried out a quiet but heated argument with them. An insectoid demon Illyria was unfamiliar with sat at another table, its proboscis making quiet slurping sounds as it sucked from a tall glass of beer, reading a newspaper.

The Ancient was pleased to see no races she knew had the ability to read auras; although Lorne had proven any such being would get more than a brain full, a psychic screaming and passing out would still draw attention. If she was going to blow their cover, she at least wanted to do it the way she had wished from the beginning: with fatalities.

She did not need to touch Landon to know he had tensed up; she heard him breathe heavily through his nose, heard his heart accelerate. If anything would cause them to gain scrutiny, it would be the implicit declaration of fear from the human. She looked up at the sergeant, wondering if he would be able to control himself, as he looked about at the various non-humans.

"This feels like a scene out of Star Wars," Landon commented under his breath.

Illyria raised one eyebrow. "I do not have a lightsaber, but I can still dismember if I must. If you insist on being 'discrete', avoid making it necessary."

For the second time in as many minutes he was speechless, and Illyria found it somewhat amusing, keeping him off balance. She made a mental note to find out if pop culture references affected Connor the same way. It also had a practical application, as Landon's heart rate slowed at the humour, and she began to see the purpose behind the pointless banter Spike, Angel and Charles would exchange before and during a battle.

The sergeant took a deep breath. "Well, then. Let's find us a Han Solo."

He moved deeper into the bar without fear, and Illyria followed, slightly behind, keeping close but not crowding him. She looked around, emulating curiosity, submissive but not fearful. Inwardly, her senses were pushed out as far as they could be, every thread of her consciousness processing the information she gained for anything useful or unusual.

There was one logical point to start with when looking for information in a bar: the bartender. He was easy to spot behind the massive oak counter at the rear of the room. He looked for all the world like a cow; but the four massive, muscled arms he possessed, which were currently cleaning and hanging glasses, and polishing the bar – simultaneously – suggested that would be an extraordinarily unwise observation to make to his face. Even odder were the pair of dark shades he wore, hiding eyes that could have been as dark and soulful as any bovine or glowing red and demonic. Landon made a beeline toward him, and the Ancient followed.

It may have been a demon bar, and the air was like soup from burning tobacco, but it was obvious that the demon in charge of the place took pride in his work. The bar shone, and the glasses gleamed in the dim light in their racks. A few bowls across the counter were filled with peanuts, and several mugs held small straws – untouched, of course... no demon who wanted to be taken seriously sipped his drink through a little pink straw. The shelves behind him were well-stocked with liquors, and Illyria scanned them for the varieties of whiskey offered. Some foolish part of her mind insisted on pointing out that the bar had no Dalwhinnie, Wesley's favourite scotch.

Another, more disciplined part of her noticed an interesting scent in the air, and she glanced around, seeking the source.

"There," she pointed out quietly. Landon raised an eyebrow at her as he settled onto a stool, and turned slowly in the direction she nodded. He watched a demon – a chubby, flannel-wearing being who appeared to possess far too much skin – slip past the bar into a back room. Entirely out of place, the demon held a wicker basket in the crook of one arm.

"That him?"

"I do not think so, but it is one connection. The basket contained kittens."

"Huh." Not an entirely useful response, but at least he didn't question how she was able to determine that.

He turned to the bartender, raising his arm in the universal signal for service. The demon approached them, moving with a slow, smooth gait that would have made a dancer jealous, despite his size. He wore a white plastic name-tag on his white button-up shirt, "Jack'ona'Ar" scribbled in black permanent marker. Two hands continued to polish a glass.

"Get you something?" he asked, a low basso. Illyria almost expected to see the glasses on the bar vibrate.

"Any beer you've got on draft, as long as it doesn't have anything freakish in it. And I'm looking for someone, if you could help me with that."

The bartender leaned down toward Landon, and drew in two deep breaths, sniffing. He seemed moderately surprised by what he found, one furry brow rising. "Kind of wandered into the wrong bar, didn't you, human?"

"Trust me, _Jack_, I wouldn't be in here if I could help it. I'm here on business."

The demon sneered, exposing a row of wide, flat teeth, but Landon met his gaze steadily. "What kind of business?"

"Acquisitions. I was told I could get into contact with a guy here, someone to help me with some hard-to-get items that normal negotiations aren't working with."

Two hands laid flat on the bar while the two others placed the clean glass and cloth underneath. "Told by who?"

"Doesn't matter, he's a business associate. I don't ask for names and I don't give out his, in case I end up asking the wrong person." The cop cocked his head at the big demon. "Am I asking the wrong person?"

The two males glared at each other for a few moments. Illyria leaned against the bar, not really needing to fake boredom.

Landon snorted and turned away. "Come on, babe. This isn't the spot. He's too honest."

"Hold up," Jack objected, sighing. "God damn you humans are impatient. Cut a few centuries from your lifespan and suddenly you have to have everything _now_." All four arms busied themselves making drinks.

"Here. Your beer." A full mug of draft was plunked on the bar, and a smaller glass was slid toward the sergeant. "Bring this to the old guy in the corner there. Name's Jave. He _might_ be able to help you. Bring him a drink and he won't laugh in your face. At least, not right away."

Landon glanced at the shadowed corner of the bar, and over to Illyria's expressionless face. He turned back to the bartender. "Okay. Thanks."

A clawed hand covered the glass as he reached for it. "The beer's three-fifty. The drink is fifty bucks."

"_Fifty?_" Landon balked. "For a rum and Coke?"

The barman leaned forward slightly, silently daring him to argue. "Yeah. Fifty."

Landon rolled his eyes, but reluctantly pulled out his wallet and laid the money on the bar.

"You behave yourself while you're in my bar, you understand?" the bartender growled threateningly. "You cause Jave any problems and you don't walk out of here. It'll be happy-hour for the vampires."

The human knew better than to try to have the last word, silently picking up the drink when the bartender's hand released it. Grabbing his own beer, he turned away, manoeuvring toward the corner table Jack had indicated. Illyria gave the bartender a lazy smirk and followed.

Landon paused, letting her slide up beside him. They looked over at the corner of the room, a small booth with a yellowed light hanging over it. The booth was the most private in the room, and the only sign that there was someone sitting there was a pile of newspapers and a thick leg clad in beige slacks and brown loafers. As they watched, a thick arm reached into view and tapped ashes from the end of a cigar.

"I believe that would be him," the Ancient commented. She looked at the mug in Landon's hands, and up at him. "And your drink is ordinary beer, in case you were apprehensive."

"Good," he replied. "I think I'm going to need it." He swallowed half of the mug in a couple of quick gulps.

"I am not carrying you out of here," she warned.

Landon ignored her, stepping forward to make his way to the corner, weaving between the tables, and being sure to avoid the other patrons with as much distance as was possible without being obvious. Illyria followed, alert, as always, to the actions of the demons around them. A few eyed the pair of them as they crossed the bar – some with simple curiosity, others with predatory interest – but all eyes averted as it became apparent who they were going to see. Illyria found this interesting, and spun off an aspect to consider the implications.

Certainly Jave himself didn't seem sufficient to warrant such fear at first glance, she thought, as they came upon the booth and he became visible. The being was stout, barrel-chested and thick-armed. Most of his face and neck was hidden behind long silver hair and a heavy grey beard which fanned across the wide expanse of his chest. He could have easily been mistaken for an old, fat human, except his wrinkled, leathery skin was the colour of ash, and the eyes that flicked up were dark yellow, almost orange.

"What?" he demanded tersely, his voice gravelled from smoke and phlegm.

"You Jave?" Landon asked without preamble.

"Nobody else is gonna admit to it. What is it?"

"Jack sent this over," he replied, putting the small glass on the table, in one of the few spots not occupied by newspapers.

"Hmph," Jave grunted. "Thanks." He went back to examining his papers for a few moments, until it became obvious Landon wasn't going anywhere. He looked back up at the looming man and his slender companion. "What, you want a tip or something?"

Landon smiled. "Yeah, I do, actually. Not money though. I'm told you're a decent agent for certain kinds of specialists'."

The demon looked up his him through heavy-lidded eyes for a long moment. "Sit," he commanded. Landon complied, and Illyria slid in beside him. Jave stuck his cigar in his mouth and half-heartedly shoved some of the newspapers around on the table, freeing up a few spots of bare table. "My stocks," he explained offhandedly.

"I guess everybody needs a 401."

Jave's only reaction was a deep noise, not giving any indication whether he found the comment funny or not. He leaned back in his seat. "So, Jack obviously sent you over here. So what did you want?"

"I told him I needed somebody good with acquisitions. Did he send me to the right guy? Are you good at arranging to obtain things with minimum fuss?" Landon looked at the fat demon, whose thick yellow-nailed fingers looked like they would have difficulty operating a telephone with precision, with some scepticism.

"You tell me what your want, first. _Then_ I say whether or not I can make it happen."

"Well, okay. It's common enough a situation, you've probably heard it before. Magic went out of my marriage, putting me in a bit of a difficult spot." Landon waved the hand that held his beer, swirling the reddish liquid around the mug. "I was hoping to take some preventative action, before my wife saddles me with alimony payments on top of taking the house and everything else. You know how the judges are."

"Never been married. And I don't do assassinations," Jave stated bluntly.

"What?" The sergeant's eyes bugged out briefly. He laughed. "No, no no. I don't want her _dead_. I'm not that kind of guy. I just want the wedding ring back. She's not willing to return it." He looked at Jave as if the demon should empathize. "It was my mother's."

The being snorted, slightly amused. "I'm assuming this isn't your wife," Jave commented, gesturing at Illyria with his cigar.

"This?" Landon replied. "This is the reason why my soon-to-be ex-wife isn't willing to return the ring."

His muscled arm settled around her shoulders as if it belonged there. For extra show, his thumb gently stroked the exposed skin where her shoulder met the slender column of her neck. The demon queen barely managed to keep the surprise off her face as she bore the other demon's scrutiny.

It was an act, she knew. Landon showed no indication of gaining amusement or joy from the embrace, his attention focused solely on the criminal in front of him. But the touch ignited memories in the demoness, made the skin beneath his hand tingle, a gentle pleasure which reached down to her belly. It was met with a torrent of white-hot rage, as she realized how she was reacting without intending. It was an effort to not erupt into violence, to not even let her emotions show on her face... but somehow she managed. An aspect spun off to consider various horrible things she could do to the human when their mission was done.

The grungy demon regarded her. "Bit skinny for my tastes, but whatever."

Landon shrugged.

She could grind him into paste between her fingers and feed him to the plants in the Hyperion garden. They'd probably enjoy that, even if they couldn't tell her so.

"Seems like a lot of effort for just a ring."

"Well," Landon said, looking at his beer glass as his spun it lightly between his fingers, "if your guy felt like fetching the bond papers and other jewelry at the same time, I wouldn't mind. It'd help with the alimony payments, at least until she drags some other idiot down the aisle."

"Ah," Jave grunted. "Married into money?"

"Sort of." Landon leaned forward, getting to the meat of the matter, and thankfully removing his arm from Illyria's shoulders. "Her parents were pretty successful bankers and real estate speculators. Made a stupid amount of money just during the dot-com boom. Most of their cash is still locked up in investments, but there's at least a few million in bonds sitting in a big safe in the basement of our... _her_ house. The place used to belong to her parents, they let us live there while they moved back east."

"And if you lived there, why didn't you get the ring' yourself?"

"I don't know the combination to the safe. Neither does my wife. Only her father does. She has him lock stuff up in there to spite me."

"Hmm." Jave leaned back, puffing a bit on his cigar. He picked up his drink and sipped at it, letting the silence play out for long moments.

The sergeant did not move, nor did he break eye contact with the demon. Illyria watched them both and tried not to show her confusion, suspecting that there was something going on between them – something her lack of experience with social interplay wasn't letting her understand.

"You _do_ realize what you're asking me to do, right?" Jave asked.

"Break and enter. Grand theft. Probably more than that." Landon could probably name all the charges, their penalties, and the particular laws they pertained to, but he knew better than to display that knowledge.

"For starters. And just so you know, things can go wrong. Alarm codes could have changed, witnesses walk in at the wrong time. This isn't Mission: Impossible, and I don't have the Saint working for me. The best way to do anything is to keep it simple. I'm sure your father-in-law would be willing to hand over the safe combination with the proper motivation."

"I don't want anyone killed or hurt." Landon's voice had turned to ice, and he glared at Jave with naked hostility. "I want simple, I want clean, and I want quiet. If your people can't handle that, then you're the wrong people for the job."

The demon leaned back at the venom in the man's voice, looking at him through narrowed eyes, and Illyria began to experience alarm. This stupid, excessively-moral, inflexible _human_ had blown the entire thing, and now Wolfram and Hart would know that someone was trying to investigate the robberies...

She was preparing to start killing witnesses, when Jave suddenly snorted, lips turned up into a smirk. He knocked some ash off his cigar onto the floor. "Fine, fine," he said. "Just making sure you weren't _too_ agreeable." Jave reached into the inner pocket of the jacket he wore, pulling out a worn leather notebook. He flipped through it, brushing away ashes which fell from his cigar as he did so.

"What kind of safe is it? Electronic? I can put you in touch with a girl with a real talent for getting through alarms and electronic locks..."

"Not electronic. Old-fashioned vault in the basement, left over from the war. Big and solid. There's an alarm on the house, but I can provide the code to that."

The demon narrowed his eyes. "You still have a code to the house alarm?"

Landon smirked. "Actually, technically, I have the maid's alarm code. Mine's been disabled." He waved his hand, smiling wryly. "Don't ask."

Even in her waning fury, Illyria could not help but marvel at the human's skill at prevarication. The lies rolled off his tongue easily, natural and unrehearsed. He had passed the demon's little test, when even the Ancient hadn't seen it for what it was. This human deserved an Academy Award... and his rib cage would make an excellent hat.

Jave was scribbling notes into his book. "Where's the place?"

"Ah ah, I just told you that a lot of valuable bonds and expensive jewelry could be found there. I don't think I want to share the exact location until your employee accepts the job. Someone might decide to go independent." He gestured with his empty glass. "It's near San Francisco, that should be enough for now."

"My man might need transport."

"I'll see what I can do. Worse comes to worse, Jess here can drop him off." He indicated Illyria, who looked at the other demon and smirked.

Jave raised an eyebrow. "Where will you be?"

"Making sure my wife is out of the house, presumably. It'll keep her out of your way and give me an alibi."

The demon grunted, mildly impressed. "Okay. Give me a contact number, and I'll call you later _if_ I manage to find someone to help you, and arrange a meeting. You'll probably be expected to bring either the building plans or sketches." Jave's tone indicated this was not negotiable. "Anything about the safe and the alarm system is useful. My expert needs information to work." He fixed Landon with a flat stare, and it was obvious that no matter how old or out of shape the demon seemed, he was still a predator. "If something goes wrong because you didn't tell us something, that's when things get messy."

Landon nodded, unable to refute that. He rattled off a cell phone number, and gave his pseudonym, "Mark Landry", as the contact. The old demon wrote them down in messy handwriting.

"I'll call you if I manage to swing something. Other than that, I'm not making any promises," Jave warned, finishing off his drink.

The sergeant nodded, and gave the demon a small salute. Then a small shove with his shoulder indicated to Illyria that they should leave. She slid out of the booth and he followed, and together they made their way to the exit.

The Ancient, to her credit, managed to restrain herself until they'd left the bar before turning on Landon, giving him a light shove. Light to her; the human found himself briefly airborne and slammed into the brickwork beside the stairs down to _Jack's_.

"Illyria! Jesus, what-"

"The next time you put your arm around my shoulders, I will remove it from yours!" she snarled, all pretence of humanity thrown to the wind.

"He was _watching_ us, Illyria!" he growled back, voice strangled back from a shout. There was no one visible from where they stood for the moment, but their voices could possibly carry back inside the bar. "We were playing a role, remember? Do you think I'd cuddle you for my own jollies?"

Somehow his rejection stung almost as much as his feigned interest. "I have no interest in your mating proclivities. Only that you keep your hands off!"

"What the hell do you want me to do? We can't blow our cover. We've got a _mission_ here, Illyria, and you came to _me_, remember? Are you going to let me do my goddamned job or not?"

The demoness wanted to argue more, but one of her aspects – a piece of herself which became more reasonable' by the day – reminded her of her own lessons to Angel: the ends justify the means, always. Was she now the one bound by an insane construct? Where was her divine emptiness?

Every day, the reflection of herself in the mirror became more familiar. Every day, the reflection of herself in the eyes of her companions became more alien. She was unable to explain the paradox.

"I apologize," she said, slowly, as though exploring the strange, slightly sour flavour of the words as they rolled across her tongue. Landon's eyes went wide, clearly not expecting such an admission, even from the short time he had known her. Lorne would probably have fallen over. "I cannot argue with your results. Nor your motives. And the goal is paramount."

"Yeah, well," he temporized, clearly no more comfortable than she, and perhaps not much more experienced with apologizing. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know you were that sensitive."

"I am _not_-" She stopped again, realizing what a blatant denial of reality she was about to claim. She changed tack. "You merely caught me by surprise. With your biases, I did not expect such... action."

He raised an eyebrow at her comment, but didn't argue with it. "I can't promise not to do it again. But I'll try to give you some warning next time."

"That would be appreciated." She turned away, crossing her arms. She scanned the dark streets around them, which were still largely empty from when they'd come in. "So, is this all there is? He will call you, and we will meet his thief?"

"Of course not. He'll probably do some kind of check on that cell phone number, try to find out if I'm on the level. It's a clean number, no connection to the department, so he won't find anything. And there's no shortage of rich dilettantes with old houses in the Bay area, so that won't get him far, either. He'll treat us like real customers, but he'll be cagey." He shrugged. "Even if he comes through, we might not get the right thief. We might have to come up with some reason to get another guy... or maybe even let him do a real break and enter so we can nab him, and try to get him to rat out his buddies."

Illyria looked at the sergeant. "You have thought about this a great deal."

He shrugged again. "It's what I do."

Just up the street, illuminated by the street lights, a pair of vampire women appeared, walking in the direction of the bar. They were not hunting, judging from the way they held each other's arms and giggled, but the Ancient saw no reason to tempt them. "We should go," she stated, and then surprised Landon – again – by threading her arm through his, and leading him away from the bar, perpendicular to the path of the approaching vampires. The brief look of alarm of his face was satisfying.

His bigotry was no so deep as perhaps he demonstrated, as he quickly recovered. He looked at her, and amusement became visible on his face. He leaned over, almost needing to stoop to mutter quietly in her ear. "You realize, if anyone was watching, it looks like we just had a lover's spat, right?"

"Do not flatter yourself," she replied, although she experienced a ripple of disquiet.

The human chuckled lightly in response. "Are you sure you didn't go to Catholic school? Or visit Oak Harbor in Washington? I got roughly the same reaction from the girls there, too..."


	18. Appointments

Three days after the meeting at the bar – roughly an appropriate amount of time for some checking up, Landon figured – he received a phone call on the cell phone number he'd given Jave. The message was simple and to the point: _"Eight tonight at Jack's. Bring the house plans. My agent will decide from there."_

Landon was ready; with his Captain's permission, he'd had a worker at the city dig up the floor plans to an old house which actually had an old vault in the basement, a set of plans that had been registered with the city but the actual place never built. The owner had been some paranoid guy worried that the Japanese were going to invade the west coast during World War Two, and thus had the customized house designed; ironically enough, he'd been drafted and sent off to the South Pacific before he'd ever had a chance to build the place.

Well, the design would finally serve a purpose. Remove the City of Los Angeles markings, some minor cleanup, and he had something that could satisfy a curious cat burglar. Satisfied, he rolled up the simple computer printouts, secured it with a rubber band, and jammed in into the inner pocket of his jacket, hanging behind him on his cubicle wall.

Now, the hard part. He picked up his phone and jabbed in the number to the Hyperion.

"_Hello?"_

"Reilly. It's Jake Landon."

"_Oh, hey. You've got some news?"_

"I got the call today. They want to meet us tonight at the same bar. I've got some fake background all ready to go. Can you get Illyria?"

"_She's right here. Uh, she can hear us talking. She says 'it's about time'."_

Landon could imagine Connor had done some editing. "I love you too, Illyria. I'll be over there in about two hours, then we can head over to the meeting."

There was a brief buzzing from the other end as Connor spoke with the Ancient, and Landon amused himself by wondering what kind of snark she was coming up with. But Connor only replied with _"Roger. See you then."_

"Illyria?"

Landon looked up, surprised, to see Henderson leaning against the entrance to his cubicle, arms crossed. He dropped the phone back into its cradle and raised an eyebrow at her. "You're not supposed to eavesdrop on phone conversations," he scolded without heat. Rumours about the case he was currently working – and what kind of case it could be to pull a commander away from his squad – were flying all over the department.

"When the dour Sergeant Jake Landon utters the words I love you', and not to a gun, the whole world comes to a stop." Her tone was teasing, but carried a bit of jealousy; not for the first time, Landon regretted the circumstances that made him her boss, and therefore made her untouchable – for now.

He grinned mischievously to reassure her. "She hates it."

She smirked in response, relaxing a bit. She hesitated a moment before speaking again. "This is the same Illyria from the park? The fallen-god one?" Her voice had lowered slightly, as if knowing instinctively that it wasn't something the other officers should hear.

"A god in her own mind, maybe."

"What's she like?"

"A ticking bomb," he replied, without hesitation. "Violent temper, stronger than anyone has any business being, and erratic besides."

The blunt appraisal surprised her. "Jake!" she hissed, eyes wide. "And you're working with this... person?"

"Yeah."

"And you're not worried at all?"

"Sometimes. We work with dangerous people, Jackie, it's part of the job. And in her case...", he struggled for words, "I really dunno. Like I said, she's erratic. She'll go on... and on, and on... about how inferior humans are, and how superior she is, but one quiet word from this Reilly kid and she'll do anything for him. One second she's psycho-egomaniac-bitch, the next she's like she doesn't know what to do with herself." He spread his hands.

Henderson looked at him worriedly. "Be careful."

"I will be. Like I said, it's part of the job. Besides, she's helping me get a line of investigation on a murder, and some other shady characters. It's been a learning experience."

She snorted, unladylike. "Don't let Stern hear you talking like that."

Landon scowled. "Stern has his own problems to worry about. Have you seen him at all?"

"No, I haven't," she replied, red eyebrows high. "He didn't show up to the meeting?"

Meeting? More like inquiry, but the brass was softening the words used. They didn't quite know how to deal with accusations of police brutality, when the victim was – in a more literal use of the word than usual – a monster. Conduct unbecoming an officer' was what the suspension had been officially listed as. Watered down, but still serious. And you did _not_ stand up your sergeant and the captain of the precinct at a meeting discussing said behaviour.

Landon shook his head. "We sat there for an hour. I think he was going to let him off light, but not anymore. He'll be very lucky if this doesn't cost him his badge. He's been dancing the line too long."

"I'll tell him to call you if he shows up."

"He'd better be frigging bleeding all over the place if he does." He locked his workstation and stood up. "Now, if dealing with one person with anger management problems wasn't enough, I've got to get ready for my date' with Illyria."

"Seems a shame," Henderson commented idly, "she won't even put out."

Landon's traitorous male mind immediately began picturing that situation, and his hair stood on end – well, more so. She laughed at his expression, retreating down the corridor before he could muster a proper outraged response.

--------

Breathing inward, Illyria reached out a hand, and concentrated. She pulled energy from within herself, directing and shaping it. It was nothing to the energies she had once wielded so easily; a spark compared to a blowtorch.

In front of her, in the middle of the room, space started to deform.

For a few moments she stood and strained, invisible threads of her will attempting to wrap around the small warp in the air, to subdue it. She clenched her teeth and _pushed_. Her body quivered, and her breath became short, almost panting. It was purely a reaction of her vessel – what she was doing had nothing to do with her muscles. The ripple in the air became a dimple, an undulation of the air that seemed to shake along with her. Space didn't like having holes poked into it. It fought back.

And it won. Illyria's will wasn't the irresistible force it had once been. The air vibrated like the string of an instrument, and then went still. The demoness, spent, collapsed to her knees, blue hair curtaining across her face as she rested her elbows against her thighs.

She was too tired to even be properly frustrated. She was doing something wrong, she knew it. She rubbed her leather-clad arm across her forehead, wiping away sweat that wasn't there, and leaned back, pulling her legs in front of her and letting her back rest against the bed.

Marc and Connor assumed she was meditating, or perhaps reading. She let them think so... and it was even sometimes correct. Lorne was still in Las Vegas, and that was a good thing, as the sensitive empath demon would likely be able to feel her activities up in her room. She had no desire to explain herself to any of them. Connor still had an ingrained dislike of portals, Marc would pepper her with annoying questions, and Lorne... he would likely not be happy with how she was doing what she was doing.

How ironic, that the possible key to the salvation of one of her most powerful abilities would lie within the memories of a dead primate.

It had come to her in another one of her dreams, the dreams that were actually stolen experiences. A dream of walking among stacks of books, shelves and shelves of human knowledge. Illyria was no stranger to the library – she had her own library card now, and Connor trusted her to visit the library on her own now with a minimum of mayhem, a privilege she exercised often. Indeed, she'd initially mistaken the dream for one of her own recent memories.

But the library she experienced was not the one she walked through every other day, visiting often enough that the older woman at the counter had begun to greet her with a smile, and calling her Illyria – the demoness had gracefully forgiven the human the familiarity. No, the place of her dream was older, larger, with wooden shelves, marble floors, and a greater selection of books.

_Hands that were hers, yet not, skimmed across the titles of the books, occasionally diverting to push her glasses back up onto their proper spot on the bridge of her nose. She scanned the Dewey Decimal numbers of the books in front of her, looking for the text that had been recommended by her research. It was late; the library was empty, and it was only her status as a research assistant, and the head librarian's fondness, that let her be here. She should be home in bed, but she knew better than to bother. Her mind was on overdrive, like it always was whenever she found a really interesting problem, running in circles like the dogs around her parents' house._

_It was odd that the book she'd been pointed to was in the foreign language section, but then a lot of this research she'd been doing was odd. Working with Professor Seidel was a dream come true, the same man who had fired up her addiction to physics. But helping him, getting a close look at his research, had created more questions than answers... and not in the normal academic way. Some of his formulae – the stuff he hadn't published yet – seemed to border on nonsense. She couldn't reproduce the experimental results, yet she'd seen him do so. She didn't want to think that such a man would be cooking his results._

_She'd gone to him with her concerns, and he had laughed, and said the inconsistencies were precisely why he hadn't published yet, and finding the problems were the reason why he kept a brilliant student like herself around. She'd felt like she was going to explode with pride; a top scientist like Seidel telling you he trusted you to critique and evaluate his work was not a small compliment as far as she was concerned._

_And so, like a dog with a bone, she'd thrown herself into understanding his experiments, backtracking, trying to reproduce his results from the ground up. And now she found herself in the foreign language section, trying to find a book that would supposedly help her understand the "spooky quantum links" effect and spatial distortion._

_Ah, there it was._

_She plucked the book from the shelf and flipped it open. It was a very old book, bound with leather, and seemed to be far too old to have anything to do with modern physics. She flipped among the pages with interest._

_She didn't know how long she stood there, reading. The book was insane! Was it honestly talking about magic? This thing belonged in the fiction section. But... some of the text was actually interesting. The stuff she could read, of course. Energy flows and the effects of concentration upon spacial folds. What language was the rest of this stuff? Did vowels go out of fashion? She tried to pronounce some of the weird syllables. "Krv dr... drpglr..."_

_A wind suddenly came from nowhere. She spun about, and there in front of her was a hole in mid-air! She gaped in shock for a second, and then gasped, as the wind had become torrential, and the hole seemed to be pulling her toward it, like it had a gravity of its own..._

Illyria blinked, pulling herself out of the memory, shaking away the terror and confusion much more easily than when she'd first experienced it.

The shell had come to understand what had happened, of course. In fact, she'd probably had the greatest understanding of portal manipulation of any human alive. Portals terrified her. And to defeat that fear, she'd confronted them. She'd wished to study them, understand them... enslave them. It was an attitude that Illyria understood and respected.

And now that knowledge was hers. She'd made no attempt to sift it from the shell's memories, in keeping with her promise to Wesley. It had just suddenly been there.

After the dream, the demoness had had an epiphany. She suddenly understood how it was possible for her to manipulate time again, even in her diminished state, which she would likely never recover from. She realized that although she no longer contained such massive stores of energy within herself, there was still no lack of energy to be found. The planes of the universe rubbed against one another, generating enormous quantities of power. The power left to her was enough to tap into that, like a match sparking a puddle of petroleum.

Her limitation was her ability to act as a conduit. Before her draining, opening a portal had been an exercise in brute force, using raw power and strength to tear a hole in space and time. She never thought of how she did it... she willed that it happen, and that was enough. Now, even drawing on the planar bleed, she didn't have the strength to channel those energies long enough to brute-force her way into stopping time, or opening a portal.

Finesse was never Illyria's strong suit. Enough people had told her that, even before her first death.

Thus, she spent time up alone in her room, practising. Refining her technique. Failing, again and again. She wouldn't tolerate the others seeing her seemingly futile efforts.

There, in the privacy of her room, the Ancient put to use something she'd learned from Connor and Marc. She sighed.

Part of her found it interesting, that a being whose greatest powers lie in the manipulation of time and space found herself reborn in the body of a mortal whose primary interests concerned the study of those very same forces. It was almost too much to be a coincidence, although Knox may have targeted Winifred Burkle to be her vessel because of such parallels. Somehow, though, she doubted he was that clever.

"Everything's connected."

Illyria's head snapped up. For some reason, she was not surprised to see the Child, legs curled up into her chest as she sat in the chair in the corner of the room. Her first instinct was to attack; but then she remembered how easily the girl had pushed her away before, and how she could disappear in an eye blink. Clearly violence, although satisfying, was not effective. Perhaps it was time to try something new.

Even as she thought it, the Child broke into a wide grin, as though immensely pleased. The two stared at each other, both sitting with their knees against their chests, Illyria on the floor by the bed and the Child in the chair. Strange, distorted mirrors of each other.

Perhaps it was inaccurate to call her a Child, Illyria noted. As with previous encounters, the girl had aged considerably, growing taller, though still very slender, her womanly curves not yet entirely asserting themselves. What was the significance of her ageing? A few spots of teenage acne dotted her face, which struck Illyria as strange – what need had a phantom of astringent and Clearasil? Dark brown eyes gazed at her from beneath dark-rimmed glasses, thoughtful and devoid of fear.

Suddenly, she knew what face she was looking at.

"I know who you pretend to be," she said.

"'Course ya do," the girl replied, unconcerned. "Like I said, everythin's connected."

Illyria tilted her head, examining the other carefully. "Why would your masters create you in this form? For a... psychological attack, there are better choices."

"Wesley? Hamilton? Quo'En Loque?" The girl recited, seemingly amused. The demoness forced herself not to react to the names, the only beings to whom she would admit having defeated her, especially the name of the lieutenant who had engineered her first fall. "It's not an attack, just a message." Something seemed to occur to the girl, and she grinned. "Quo'En would make a really ugly Jiminy Cricket, though he kinda looks the part."

Illyria raised an eyebrow at the comment. "What message' are you intended to convey?"

A shrug. "That everythin's connected."

She bit back a snarl. Standing, she turned to her bed and closed the two books that lay there. When she turned back, she was actually slightly surprised to see the girl still in the chair. "Have you nothing useful to impart?" She barely kept the desperation out of her voice, the frustration of being followed by this... ghost.

The Child showed her palms to the Ancient. "Remember Mister Robertson? He said that. The circle of life, the water cycle, yadda yadda. Everythin' goes somewhere, and most of the time it ends up where it began. Everythin's connected."

Illyria had no idea who Mister Robertson was. "And what is this supposed to mean to me?"

The Child actually rolled her eyes. At her! "It means if you wanna know where somethin' is going, you should know where it came from."

"Are you incapable of speaking directly?" She paused. "Is this about the mission against Wolfram and Hart?"

"Sorta."

"And you have nothing to tell me about it?"

"I only know what you know. I'm jus' a way of asking questions, and questions are important, jus' like the answers. Ask an imper-nent question and get a pert-nent answer.'"

"Ask an impertinent question, and you are on the way to a pertinent answer'," Illyria corrected. And she blinked, as she suddenly remembered; Mister Robertson, her seventh grade science teacher, who kept various quotes pasted up all around his classroom from the likes of Bronowski and Einstein. No... not hers, the shell's. Illyria had still been in the Deeper Well.

"I never attended-" Illyria looked up, and saw that the chair was empty, "... school."

She sighed again.

--------

"What the hell happened to you?" Landon asked, narrowing his eyes at the terrific shiner Connor sported on his right eye.

"Well, hello to you, too," Connor replied with a raised eyebrow. He stepped aside from the door and let the plain-clothed cop into the hotel. A gust of cool air followed him in, indicating that the night would be pleasant and temperate, compared to the scorching day.

"Yeah, yeah. Hello. What happened to you?"

The cop thing never turned off, did it? Connor followed him down the few steps. "It's nothing big. I was sparring with Illyria." He touched the blemish gently, which was already yellowing around the edges, despite being just a few hours old. By tomorrow it would be gone... although that'd be interesting to explain to Landon.

"Sparring? With _Illyria_? How does that even approach being safe?"

"She's careful, and has good control," Connor said, defencive. "This was an accident. I've gotten bruises sparring with other people before. She likes to make sure I stay sharp, so that I can handle myself on the streets."

"She only hits him 'cause she loves him so much," came Marc's dry voice from the direction of the counter, his normal spot. The comment earned him a glare from his friend.

Landon made a noise in his throat and shrugged. "You took out that guy at the station easily enough. You just don't strike me as the fighter type."

"Even a mouse is possessed of sharp teeth, and the instinct of when to use them," came a familiar voice. All heads in the room swivelled up to where Illyria stood, by the railing on the balcony at the top of the stairs.

Connor looked at Landon and held his arms wide. "Apparently, I'm a mouse."

"I'll get you a tiny red cape," he replied.

All three men watched Illyria descend the stairs. She walked up to Landon, already in her human guise, though her mannerisms were still her own. "I am ready to depart."

"Right." He looked at Connor. "Will you be available?"

Connor shook his head, tossing his shaggy hair about – which Illyria still had not convinced him to cut. "No, I have a shift at the hospital until midnight. Marc will be here, though."

"In a hospital already?" Landon asked, surprised.

"Just volunteering in the emergency room," Connor said. "I've got a couple of years before I'm done my undergraduate degree, then pre-med. I fetch files and coffee. But it's good experience and exposure."

"Marc will be here," Illyria said.

The young man sputtered a protest from behind the hotel counter. "Why would you assume that? I _do_ have a life you know. I'm hip and single, and there are ladies that need my attention."

"Your thesis needs your attention," Illyria countered. Behind her Landon raised an eyebrow, amused by her almost matronly tone, although even he knew better than to point it out.

"I'm done."

"What?" She sounded genuinely surprised, and Marc grinned.

"I'm done. I've got the draft all typed up and ready to submit." He lifted the booklet that comprised his report from the desk as proof. Just as quickly it was snatched from his hands, and Illyria began flipping through it with a suspicious look. "I told you it was just a matter of waiting for inspiration to hit."

Landon looked over her shoulder as she scanned each page. She was a speed-reader; only the thickest books could keep her occupied for more than a day. "Thesis?"

"Undergrad honours," Marc replied. "Although my adviser says it'd make a good base for doctoral work, if I decide to go that far."

The cop raised an eyebrow. "I'm surrounded by overachievers."

Illyria suddenly looked up at Marc with narrowed eyes. "Unable to adapt'?"

He swallowed nervously. "I was talking about the Old Ones in general, not just you."

"We ruled this world for millions of years!"

"And now you don't." He summoned what little courage he had, and squared his shoulders. He may be a lazy student with a drop of demon blood, but academic integrity was important. "It's the truth. I can't fudge my conclusions to mollify you."

She let him sweat under her glare for a few more seconds, then closed his booklet neatly and handed it to him. "Perhaps you possess a backbone after all. Your assertions appear correct... however, there are six grammatical errors and three spelling mistakes. I will indicate them once I return."

Emboldened, the young man replied with a "Yes, mom," earning him another vicious look. Landon ruthlessly crushed an urge to laugh.

She turned to Landon. "We must go."

The cop gestured toward the door, and both adults headed out, Landon departing with a small wave toward the younger men. Illyria, focused as ever, never looked back.

As the door quietly shut behind them, Connor looked over at his friend. "Possess a backbone'? You know, the way you sit in that chair..."

"Hush, you."

--------

For the second time, Landon and Illyria found themselves walking down darkened streets in a dangerous part of town. There was purpose to their steps now, however, and Landon could feel the demoness' impatience and anticipation.

Which itself was odd, in the man's opinion. Was he learning how to read her mannerisms, or was she acting more human-like, even when not trying? It wasn't something he really wanted to think about.

Being careful not to accidentally bump into Illyria, he let his eyes wander, scanning up and down the dark streets and the tall apartment buildings. Dark, like always. At least near the upper floors of the apartments they were wandering by, there was the occasional lit window. The street lights held back some of the oppressive gloom, and once again Landon found it odd that he and his team had never been called out to this section of the city. Perhaps it looked different, friendlier, during the day. He'd have to take a drive by tomorrow afternoon and see.

The two of them were walking past an alley, less than a block from the demon bar, when Landon heard it. Short but shrill, echoing past the concrete and brick walls of the buildings. "Was that a scream?"

"Yes," she replied. She made it sound like a weather announcement. "It came from the behind this building."

The sergeant shot her a look, but then turned and jogged down the narrow corridor. "We have an appointment," she objected from behind him. He ignored her.

The alleys in this section of town were narrow, or at least felt that way, as the buildings around him stretched up toward the sky on either side, leaving only a narrow stripe of cloud and starlight above. The moon was unable to climb over the tops of the human structures, so only the barest amount of light from it and the street lights bled down the alleyway. Landon yanked his small flashlight from his jacket pocket and lit it as he jogged. He knew it would make it easier to target him, but figured running head first into a steel dumpster wouldn't be particularly stealthy nor healthy to begin with. At least they hadn't heard gunfire.

The path crossed another alley which stretched perpendicular to the one he was in. It was much wider, enough to let a truck through, and though not the slightest bit of light from the streets or the half-moon managed to make its way into the channel, there was the rare security light in the back of one of the buildings, or the light of an upstairs window, which kept the place from being cast into complete blackness.

Which direction had the scream come from?

There was a crash and a yelp from his right, and Landon swung the beam of his light in that direction. He could hear boxes and bags rustling, the scrape of something against the asphalt of the alley. He advanced slowly in the direction of the sounds. A fence came into view, a tall steel affair which stretched across the width of the alley, and was nearly twice Landon's own height. He cursed; if there was someone in trouble on the other side he'd have no means to getting to them.

"Anyone there?" His light shone across a slimy piece of cardboard, which was moving by itself. "Hello?" Great. He was acting out the please eat me' cliche from every horror movie ever made. And where was _his_ pet monster when he needed her?

When he moved the cardboard aside, he found himself looking not at a space alien, nor a nut in a hockey mask with a chainsaw, but instead a young blonde woman. Plain-looking, no make-up, and she was dressed in a simple sweater and acid-washed jeans, which were none the better for their roll through the garbage. His cop's mind noted clinically that, other than her fright, she was not visibly hurt, nor were her clothes ripped.

Had she managed to climb over the fence? No small feat, although fear had a way of making impossible things possible. She must have fallen from the top, and had been lucky enough – in a way – to land in the heap of trash that been stacked nearby. She looked up at him, and Landon briefly saw blue eyes, before she shut them and screeched. She'd nearly been to her feet, but now she fell over backwards, and was kicking and scrambling to get away from him. The bags around her caught on her feet, tearing open and spilling fresh trash across her legs.

"Miss!" Landon moved to help her up. She screamed again. "Miss! I'm not going to attack you! What's going on? What are you running from?"

She shrieked once more as she hit the alley wall and wasn't able to retreat any further. But Landon's calm and authoritative voice had gotten through to her. He squelched an idiotic impulse to shine his flashlight up at his own face, campfire-style, deciding that kind of thing wouldn't go over very well. Instead he directed the light toward her legs, realizing he was blinding her. He held a placating hand toward her.

"Miss, I'm a police officer. What's going on? What are you running from?" he repeated

Her eyes opened almost with wonder, and she grasped at his arm, as if to confirm he was real. As soon as she touched him, she gasped, and began scrambling to her feet. He helped as best as he could; she was strong with adrenaline. "You have to help me! She killed Dave, she's right behind me!" She pointed with a shaky hand.

He moved her behind him, scanning through the fence. "Who? What happened?" He spoke slowly but with authority, trying to calm the woman enough to get an answer."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Illyria emerge from the darkness. He made eye contact with her, and noted that she actually seemed surprised. Then she turned and glared contemptuously at the other woman. Landon decided this wasn't the time for her moodiness and ignored her.

The blonde hadn't noticed her. Instead, she pointed through the fence and cowered behind him. "Her!" she whispered.

On the other side, a young woman appeared from the darkness, stepping out of the shadows as if they were reluctant to give her up. She strode boldly into the beam of his flashlight with a gait that reminded him of Illyria when she moved around the Hyperion – not as stiff-legged, but smooth and powerful, and there was no noise as moved toward them.

The girl didn't look dangerous, all young, slender curves within tight black jeans and a simple black t-shirt. She was Latin-American, no more than seventeen, but darkly beautiful. Ebony hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she moved with a dancer's grace, sliding forward silently on the balls of her feet. She seemed to belong more to a ballet than she did a filthy back alley but for the sharpened stick in her hand, and her eyes. Predator's eyes. The eyes of someone who knew they were the top of the food chain, and everything else was prey.

Eyes like Illyria's.

At least she was on the other side of the fence. There was time to figure out what was going on, or to get the victim away while Landon dealt with it.

Or maybe not. In one movement, the girl jumped straight up, grabbing the top of the fence with her hands to flip herself over with gymnastic flair. She landed with a thump into a crouch, vaulting over a three metre fence as easily as Landon would have jumped over a counter.

_Aw, Hell. _Landon's gun materialized in his hand, and the click of the hammer being pulled back echoed slightly through the alley. He took a few steps back, keeping the woman behind him with his elbow as he tried to keep the flashlight trained on the newcomer.

"Police officer! Stay where you are," he commanded. He risked a glance back at Illyria, who remained a few paces back, her arms crossed in front of her. She rolled her eyes at him. Rolled her eyes! What the hell?

The girl uncoiled from her crouch, but didn't approach. She wasn't relaxed, and Landon could feel she was coiled like a spring and could explode into action at an instant. Her eyes flickered briefly across the others, pausing briefly on Illyria, but then settled upon the blonde woman.

"You don' know who you're protecting," she replied with a slight Spanish accent, not showing any fear of the weapon held on her.

"We'll find out in a second. But first, you're going to put down the stick."

"Shoot her!" hissed the woman from where she cowered behind the officer. She desperately tapped his shoulder, but was careful not to disturb the arm holding his weapon. "She's too fast! She's a freak! She killed Dave!"

"Quiet!" Landon ordered over his shoulder. "Get back."

"Listen, man, _she's_ the one that ain't human, ge' away from her and let me handle this."

"I _said_, drop the stick!"

"She not human, man, if you shoot me you're next-"

"Shoot her! _Shoot her!_"

The shrill human voices overcame what little patience Illyria had left. With a faint snarl she strode forward, seizing the woman and pulling her backward, away from Landon, causing her to illicit another screech. Her massive strength forced the woman to her knees in front of her.

Landon jerked around, wide-eyed. "_Illyria!_" he managed to shout, his weapon coming around, even as the demoness' fingers sank into the flesh around the woman's spine, producing a horrible crack; even as she began to shriek-

-And she was gone.

Even after all he'd seen, it was too much for him to process. His pistol shook as he held it on the Ancient, his mouth hanging open. Illyria clapped dust from her hands, her expression arrogant and inhuman, all the more dreadful for the attractive human face she wore. She watched him for a moment, head twitching in her manner, all pretence of humanity discarded. Waiting for him to decide whether he was going to try to shoot her anyway or put the gun down.

Behind him, the girl looked no less confused.

She showed her hands to the cop, slightly dirty but unstained with blood. "A vampire," she said, voice dripping with contempt. "Had you 'saved' her, she would have thanked you by tearing your throat out. Or perhaps she would have turned you into a vampire yourself. Would you have preferred that?" Her flat, unblinking gaze held his.

After a moment, the weapon dropped, as Landon seemed to shrink in upon himself. He turned to the alley wall, and thumped his back against it, sliding down to a crouch. He pressed his hands, still holding his pistol, against his head. "This is too much for me to deal with."

"But you will deal with it," she commanded, unsympathetic and unyielding.

"Uh... what's going on?" Illyria looked over at the girl, who continued to watch them, utterly confused. With the dusting of the vampire, the girl's air of menace had faded away, like a tool that wasn't needed anymore.

"He is a police officer," she explained, "and is having difficulty figuring out the players in this new game."

"Yeah," the girl replied. "I kinda figured that. I don' mind, as long as I don' get shot."

Illyria looked at the girl; she seemed so young. Yet, everybody was, compared to her. "Are you the new Slayer?" She frowned. "Did the Slayer Faith fall in battle?"

"Faith?" Dark eyes widened in recognition of the name, luminous in the dark alley. "Naw, she's fine. There's all kinds of Slayers now, we don' need to die to make more."

"Truly? Good."

"You're her, aren't you?" the girl asked. "The other Slayer the demons and vamps have been running scared of since the alley riot. At least, all the Watchers thought you were a Slayer we hadn't found yet." Her head cocked in the alley light, her long mane of hair partially hiding her features. "'Cept you're not, are you? I never saw a Slayer pop a vamp's top like a bottle cap."

A Slayer? Landon was having trouble following the conversation. Illyria pursed her lips. "No, I am something different," she replied.

That she didn't elaborate wasn't lost on the girl; but she shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "Well, if you're hanging with cops you mus' be one of the good guys. At least you're keeping him out of trouble." Illyria seemed mildly amused by the comment. Even Landon found it overly simplistic, but he was happy if it avoided the two of them slugging it out. "Anyways, there's more vamps out there that need dusting. Hasta!"

"Hey, kid." The Slayer stopped, turning to look at Landon where he still crouched by the wall. He struggled for words for a moment, finally just settling for, "Sorry."

She grinned brightly. "No problema. Jus' help me out the next time I get hauled in by the cops, 'kay?" The sergeant chuckled, and with a little wave, the Slayer turned and jogged past them in the alley, disappearing into the darkness. Dark and graceful like a panther, an urban predator back on the hunt.

Illyria turned back to Landon. He could almost see the words forming on her tongue, about how foolish and ignorant he was, but she didn't say anything. She didn't tone down her glare, however.

"What was she?" he asked.

"A Slayer," she replied. "A human girl blessed... or cursed... with a divine calling to battle the minor demons which infest this world. They have existed for hundreds of thousands of years, keeping this world safe for humanity."

"Are they all that young?"

"No," the Ancient replied. "Some are younger."

"Jesus."

There was nothing to say to that, and she didn't feel it necessary to remind him again that they had their own appointment to keep. She extended a hand, and after a moment of surprise, he let her pull him effortlessly to standing. He holstered his weapon, and together the two left the alley.

--------

The short walk to the bar passed in silence. Once there, they wasted no time, making a beeline directly for Jave's regular spot. Unlike before, the bar was a great deal more crowded and noisy. Nearly every table was occupied with some nonhuman or another, and the presence of even two humans was largely ignored.

Illyria could sense Landon's increased discomfort with the large number of alien shapes, but he let no sign show on his face, though she knew he was confused and frightened. The music drowned out his heartbeat, but his upset had dripped like purple rainwater from him as they'd walked. Once in the bar, his disgust had risen; the prospect of the mission captured his attention, and his shock at discovering little girls fighting monsters in the darkness, had turned to hidden anger.

She approved.

Illyria herself felt oddly pleased. The human had learned a valuable lesson, not the least of which was that she wasn't quiet as _obsolete_ as she herself might have thought. Landon's gun would have done nothing against the vampire unless he'd been very lucky. Old fashioned brute force had resolved the situation... and that was always her favourite way of solving a problem.

She led the way toward Jave's signature booth, but stepped aside, arms crossed, to let Landon take charge once there. The old grey demon looked up from what were apparently horse racing results. He scowled at the sergeant, barely noting Illyria's presence.

"You're late," he said without preamble.

"Sorry," Landon replied, not sounding terribly sincere. "We had a problem on the way over."

"It involved a girl," Illyria commented darkly.

Jave raised a grey eyebrow, looking at Landon and Illyria's faces, and immediately jumped to the reasonable, if incorrect conclusion. "Ah. Okay. Well, _my_ girl had to run out, so you'll have to pick a booth and wait for her."

Pick; as if they had a choice. There was only one booth free, directly behind Jave's, and it was certain that was no accident. Landon nodded, gesturing to the booth for Illyria. She shot him a look, but didn't protest, stepping forward and sliding gracefully into the seat. He moved to follow, but Jave crooked a finger, delaying him. He paused, hoping the demon hadn't become suspicious. At least Illyria might still be able to hear them over the racket from the music, he hoped.

Jave looked at him with his yellowed eyes, and then sighed, as if he was about to share the secret of the universe. "Listen, buddy, take it from an old demon. Women are dangerous. They're nice to look at, nice to talk to, but you have to remember that what they really want is to paralyse you and lay their eggs in your carcass. Your problems... you're hanging around too long. You have to learn when to run. Lord knows, my dad would still be alive if he'd known to listen for the hiss." Jave shook his head. "I'd hate to see you end up like that, kid."

Jaw hanging open, Landon fumbled for words. "I'll... think on that."

"Remember, listen for the hiss."

"Right."

He walked the few steps to the booth in a daze, and slid into the seat beside Illyria, leaving the opposite side free for their contact. It was on the tip of her tongue to comment that she should be sitting on the outside, in the event of trouble, but she refrained. Let the human embrace whatever illusions of control benefited him. It's not like she couldn't tear the table out of the way as easily as standing up.

A few minutes passed in silence. An attractive young blonde woman – again, a vampire – came over to ask if they were interested in drinks. She licked her lips in appreciation of the handsome human, but blanched when she saw the glare his companion bestowed upon her. Landon paid no attention as he ordered the same beer as he'd had before.

"And for the little lady?" That earned her another harsh look from the Ancient.

"Corona," Illyria replied automatically. "An' a small nachos."

The vampire nodded, retreating with their orders. Landon turned to Illyria with a quizzical look. "Beer and nachos?"

"To avoid looking suspicious," she explained.

He nodded, and then leaned back in his seat, silent once again. At a nearby table, some demons were laughing uproariously over some shared joke, attracting his attention briefly. She glanced at them, recognizing them as a species she'd encountered at Wolfram and Hart. Reasonably competent in a fight, but otherwise inclined to mind their own business. Not a danger.

The silence dragged on for minutes more; the Ancient actually found herself growing exasperated. Unlike the others at the Hyperion, Landon was not inclined toward meaningless chatter, and normally Illyria would happily sever limbs to get the babbling humans around her to shut up. Now, the silence grated on her, and she wondered when that had changed.

"If you are going to have a personal crisis, I would appreciate it if you left it until after we've spoken to our contact," she said coldly, careful not to speak loud enough such that Jave in the nearby booth could hear.

"Give it a rest," he replied harshly.

"If you have a problem with me, he is going to notice and not speak as freely as we would wish."

"I don't have a problem with you," he growled. He glanced at her, and noticed her sceptical look. "I don't," he reiterated, seemingly a bit surprised by his own admission. "I'm just... pissed off at the world."

"A sentiment I am capable of understanding."

The vampire waitress returned with their order, a surprisingly good example of service and efficiency, although it occurred to Illyria that the kind of clientèle the bar serviced would not be the kind of customers they'd wish to frustrate. Landon paid for the order silently, and even tipped the waitress, who smiled at him but wisely did not dawdle around the man and his oddly threatening partner.

Landon slid her plate of nachos and beer over to her, but she pushed the plate back at him. "Eat," she commanded. "There is nothing weird' in it."

"Don't you eat at all?"

"No. Are you interested in an explanation why?"

"Not particularly." He tried one chip, and finding it palatable, pulled a few others off the plate.

Illyria watched him, as well as letting other parts of herself monitor the rest of the bar. Demons, and even the odd human, came and went. None made so much as a glance in the direction of their table.

"Let me ask you something." She looked at Landon, and he continued. "Look at this place. There's maybe two or three humans in the entire place. It's a big bar. It doesn't really make any attempt to hide. How did people _not_ notice this?" He shook his head. "And you know what else pisses me off?" He gestured with his fingers at the plate of nachos. "These are the best nachos I've ever had in my life."

"It is in the nature of any sentient to attempt to fit what it sees within the world it knows. When something deviates too much from the norm, it is easier to change what you think you see than how you think the world works."

"Yeah, but... all _this_?"

She shrugged, the most human gesture he had seen her make. "There are limits. I suspect your people have been partially kept ignorant through the use of magic by one of the higher powers."

"What? A mass stupidity spell?" He crunched through another chip. "My brother played Dungeons and Dragons. I should have paid more attention." He shook his head. "I see what you mean, though. I think I might have preferred to have just stuck to the world I knew, rather than this one."

"The world is the world," she replied. "We are all caught up in its waves and currents, and to deny it what it is, is merely to drown. I understand better than most the difference, and what has been lost."

"Why is that?"

"Because, once, I was the wave."

He raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't comment. He politely offered her the last nacho, but she shook her head. She did surreptitiously pour a small quantity of her drink onto the floor underneath the table, to make it appear she had drank.

Landon was explaining that she was supposed to mash the slice of lime down the throat of the bottle, when the main focus of her attention was drawn to the door of the bar, where someone she recognized had entered. Not someone she had personally met, but a being from the shell's memories. She was prepared to declare it an unhappy coincidence when, to her surprise, she heard Jave call to the newcomer, who began to approach them.

Then, she knew. There were no coincidences. She was being manipulated by the Powers, those petty, spiteful beings who were so annoyed at her for defying them for millions of years. This was their revenge.

"She is here. Do not let her touch you with bare skin. This is an unexpected development," she hissed quietly to Landon.

"_She_? What?" But there was no time to explain further, as the woman had already briefly spoken to Jave, and now was standing in front of their table. Dressed in her signature latex, baring a dangerous – literally – amount of skin. Tall and beautiful, staring down at Illyria with surprise, even as the Ancient looked up at her with animosity.

"Gwen Raiden," Illyria introduced.


	19. Ill News, Ill Guest

"Well, of all the people I expected to see walk into a place like this, I have to say, you were way down the list," Gwen commented.

Briefly, Illyria was at a loss for words. Then, as always, she decided to forge on ahead. "Likewise," she replied, slipping slightly into the Burkle persona, a transition that became easier every time. Hopefully, for his sake, Landon would not feel the need to speak too much.

"Well?" she prompted. "Sit." She gestured at the seat across the table.

Gwen raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She slid into the opposite seat, somehow making the simple action look cat-like and sensual. Beside her, Illyria felt Landon's body temperature rise, and his face was slightly flushed in the dim light of the bar, and her annoyance level ratcheted up another notch.

After signalling the waitress for a drink, Gwen leaned back and observed the two, blue eyes glittering in the subdued light of the bar. Her rich, dark hair cascaded loosely over her bare shoulders and arms, and ruby-painted lips were quirked as if the woman held some amusing secret. The shell's memories suggested that she was looking as fabulous as she always did, and Illyria found herself slightly jealous.

"Well," Gwen prompted, "Jave called me here because he said someone had a job to do, something about needing to fetch some items from a vault. Are _you_ supposed to be the customer?"

"She's here with me," Landon injected, obviously feeling the need to regain some control over the situation, rather than being relegated to a bystander by the two women. "_I've_ got a job for you. I think it's fairly simple, but I don't have the expertise. Jave recommended you."

Gwen quirked an eyebrow in the soft light. Her eyes roamed appreciatively over Landon's broad-shouldered form, and she smiled. "So I hear. A vault of some sort, that you've lost' the combination to?"

He smirked. "About right. Jave said to have these for you." Reaching into his inner pocket, he pulled out a folded sheaf of photocopied paper containing his falsified plans, and tossed them to her side of the table.

Gwen frowned in disapproval at his low-quality copies, but picked them up and began flipping through them. Illyria noticed that her hands were bare, lacking the safety of the insulating gloves she normally wore, and wondered why the woman would take such a risk... unless she was expecting to kill someone. She watched her through narrowed eyes.

The mutant woman was either unaware or uncaring of the hostile, unblinking scrutiny. She skimmed the papers, pausing occasionally to read a handwritten note Landon had scribbled on the page. Finally, she dropped the papers onto the table with an unladylike grunt.

"Well?"

"I have to say, this wasn't what I expected."

"There's a lot of that going around," Landon remarked dryly. "Is there enough detail there? Is the job possible?"

"It's possible. So possible it's almost beneath me." She neatly stacked and re-folded the papers, then pushed them back into the middle of the table. "Of course, it's also complete and utter bullshit."

He blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. It's a good story. Pretty believable. But... no."

"Why would you think I'm making this up?"

She ignored him, glaring at Illyria. "Why are you here? What kind of game is this?"

"She's here with me," Landon replied, trying to keep her attention on him. "She's the one who helped put me into touch with you. Well... Jave."

Gwen glared at him. "Jave told me your story. If you were here by yourself, I might believe it. But I know petty grand larceny isn't something little Dorothy here would get involved in."

"Dorothy was from Kansas, not Texas," Illyria pointed out. Threads of her mind spun, trying to find a way out of the situation. One avenue of thought barged its way to the fore: _play along._

"She speaks!" Gwen leaned on the table, glaring at the other brunette. "I don't like being jerked around. Angel _knows_ that. If he wanted to meet me, he or Charles could have picked up the goddamned phone, rather than dragging me into this crappy bar on karaoke night." She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms almost petulantly. "I'm getting tired of this idiotic cloak and dagger stuff. You can tell Angel to shove these jobs up his undead ass."

It took a considerable amount of Illyria's millennia of experience to control her reaction. Beside her, Landon was tense and confused; the conversation was taking directions he didn't understand. The Ancient considered what Gwen had said, and how much she had unwittingly revealed.

She glared at the other woman, and the air temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "_Charles_'?"

Gwen responded with a smirk, but Landon interrupted before the demoness could demand how she'd come to be on a first-name basis with Gunn. "You've been doing jobs for Wolfram and Hart?"

"Yeah, just one, through Jave."

"Local, or abroad?"

"Local." She paused, looking at them through hooded eyes. "That's what you came here to find out." It was a statement, not a question.

"Not directly."

"Then what are you after? Directly. Or I stand up and walk away."

Illyria and Landon looked at each other. The Ancient gave him a shrug, and he sighed. Nothing to lose. "We're investigating a number of robberies that have occurred around the country, including one that culminated in a murder in Georgia. We came up with the idea of putting together a similar job, putting out some feelers. We didn't expect to come up with anything right away."

"That's an awful random way to do an investigation."

He shrugged. "It's not a formal thing. I'm not the officer on the case, I'm just doing some fact-finding to hand up, maybe establishing some contacts, getting to know the lay of the land." As he said this, his eyes roamed across the bar and its various nonhuman inhabitants.

"Ahh," Gwen commented. She rested her elbows on the table, and leaned her chin on her clasped hands. "A cop. I'll have to be careful what I say, then."

"You are not the one under scrutiny, Gwen," Illyria said, just above a growl. Leaning forward had

caused the woman's breasts to be squeezed up and forward, creating a wonderful display within her low-cut black top; and though the demoness may have still found human sexual practises unfamiliar and slightly disturbing, she doubted it was at all accidental.

Landon, through titanic effort, managed to keep his eyes on her face, though his fair features made hiding the blush impossible. "W-We're not interested in you, miss," he winced at his choice of words, "just in whoever you or Jave work for."

"We work for _her_!" She gestured at Illyria. "Well, her, Angel, whoever. I saw the contract... the Research department letterhead! Isn't that _your_ group?" she demanded.

The Ancient, for her part, looked shocked. "No. Research was Wesley's group."

Landon was becoming more an more confused. "Work for her? What? What are you two talking about?"

Gwen rolled her eyes. "Wolfram and Hart. She works for them. Don't tell me she didn't tell you?"

"I do not work for Wolfram and Hart, Gwen. We... parted ways, quite a while ago."

"Hmm. Maybe I shouldn't be talking to you, then. I'm a bit surprised to see you going anywhere without one of your protectors, though. Or are you the replacement?" Gwen tilted her head as she looked at the strong police officer, smiling lopsidedly.

Landon sputtered, but Illyria grated out between clenched teeth, "I do not need protection."

"Funny, Charles thought otherwise while you two were together."

Illyria was about about to reply with something unforgivable, but Landon held up a hand to still both of them. "I have no idea what either of you are talking about." He looked impatiently at Gwen. "Do you work for Wolfram and Hart?"

"Yes."

"And do you know anything about locations belonging to a Council of Watchers' being hit with a rash of break-ins? And a murder in Georgia at one location?"

"I don't know anything about a murder."

"But you know about the break-ins."

Gwen didn't answer, pursing her lips. Wide, blue eyes fixed back onto Illyria. "Why are you here? Why pester _me_ with this stuff?"

Landon was plainly growing irritated, his voice barely level. "I'm the one pestering you. Answer me."

"_She_ should be answering you!" Frustrated, Gwen glared at the demoness. "Why? Why not just ask Wesley? Even if you quit Wolfram and Hart, it's not like he'd give you the run around, the way he moons over you-"

"Wesley's dead." Illyria said flatly.

For once, Gwen was struck dumb. "Oh."

"Angel is dead. _Charles_ is dead. They're _all dead_. There is no-one left at Wolfram and Hart that you know, so you are not protecting them with your silence, Gwen." Illyria watched the horror spread across the thief's face, the sudden pain there, and felt a mild satisfaction at the words. They warmed the block of ice which formed in her gut at having spoken them. She didn't know why Charles meant anything to the thief – didn't know why Gwen meant anything to _her_ – but there was pleasure to be had in twisting the knife, all the same.

Gwen blinked several times, swallowing. Finally she recovered enough to say, "I didn't know." Strangely, Illyria believed her. Even without her other senses, it was plainly obvious that she was deeply disturbed and upset by the news.

For a brief moment, the Ancient felt the odd urge to pat the woman's hand. Then, another urge to sneer at her weakness... which felt equally alien. But such strangeness within her own motivations was becoming common for her, so it was with little wasted thought that she ignored it.

Instead, she merely asked another question, though without the quantity of hostility that she could have produced. "How should you have? I do not care what you do not know, only what you do know. Tell me of Wolfram and Hart, Gwen."

The thief narrowed her eyes, looking at Illyria suspiciously. "You really aren't acting like yourself, Fred."

"As if you have any idea how I normally act. Is Wolfram and Hart robbing Council storehouses?"

"Not robbing, recovering," she grunted. "I don't know if you heard about this, but there was a bomb attack against their headquarters in England. It nearly wiped them all out. It _did_ wipe out almost all the people who knew how to open their various vaults. So, the people left have been left trying to break into their own vaults. So they've been hiring professionals do so."

Landon and Illyria glanced at each other, and she could tell from the sceptical tilt of his brow that he was having the same thoughts as she. "Hiring you... through Jave... through Wolfram and Hart? A law firm?"

Gwen's answer was delayed, as the vampire waitress stopped by to deliver a tall glass of golden ale to

the table. The thief was slightly more courteous than Illyria, barely acknowledging the vampire's presence rather than meeting her with open hostility; regardless, the undead woman made no attempt to linger near the booth.

After taking a sip of her drink, Gwen replied, subdued. "Wolfram and Hart is a lot more than a law firm. Fred should have been able to tell you that."

An accusatory glance at the Ancient from the human. "She's been letting me draw my own conclusions." The phrase was loaded, and even Illyria with her underdeveloped social skills knew she'd have to do some explaining later.

"Why are you working for the likes of this Jave? I believed you to be... self-employed," she asked.

Gwen smirked at her. "There's been some changes to my lifestyle. I've had to re-learn how to do some of the things I used to take for granted. I don't _need_ Jave, but he makes things a bit easier."

"What about the killing in Georgia?" Landon asked, trying to keep the conversation on track.

"This is the first I've heard of it. And before you ask, I haven't left Los Angeles in nearly a year."

"Anyone else in Jave's group who would have been there?"

Gwen pursed her lips, but remained silent.

"These are not recoveries', Gwen," Illyria said. "The Watcher's Council knows nothing of these attacks."

"Why should I care, Fred? I'm hired to do a job. I do it, I get paid. That's all I care about."

"You should care because Wolfram and Hart is using you," the Ancient replied. "They obviously believed that you would be more willing to work indirectly for them, because you believed you had allies within the company. So they lied through omission, rather than opting for someone less skilled. You are one of the best at what you do," she admitted grudgingly.

Gwen looked slightly surprised at the admission, then sighed, and slouched back in her seat. For a moment she was silent, rubbing the condensation off her glass with one perfectly-manicured finger. After a moment, she asked, "How did they die?"

"They were killed by Wolfram and Hart. By the host of demons the company sent in a moment of rage. I believe the populace is calling it the Monster Riot'. In the alley-"

"In the alley behind the Hyperion," Gwen said, "I'd hoped it was a coincidence." She rubbed her eyes with two fingers. "He should have called me. I could have helped."

"No, you couldn't have," the Ancient declared. "You would have just ended up dead, along with them."

Beside Illyria, Landon had tensed at the mention of the event which had resulted in the world being turned on its ear. Thankfully, he kept his silence, but she could sense the human was on edge. A number of secrets were being revealed, not all of them related to their investigation.

After a moment's internal debate, Gwen looked up at both of them. "Like I said, I've only done the one job, although Jave says there are more on the way. Before we fell in together, he had another guy working for him. A demon... Trusk. He's pretty good, if not my level. Jave hasn't had any jobs for him in a while... I don't know why."

"He had someone... then he stopped using him and hired you in his place?" Landon mused. "There's something wrong with that."

She shrugged. "I didn't think much of it. He's a _gobelinus_, they can be troublemakers sometimes."

"A goblin-us?" Landon questioned.

"_Gobelinus_," she corrected. "They get pissy if you use the human word. So I use it all the time, of course."

"I haven't heard of that particular demon breed before," Illyria said. "Are they dangerous?"

"You haven't heard of goblins? Small, green guys. Physically weak, good with their hands. I don't think one could even take _you_ in a stand-up fight." Illyria scowled at her. "They're clever, and like to work with their hands, though. Cracking safes, building traps..." She smirked. "Hey, that sounds a lot like you, after all. Sure you're not part demon?"

Landon choked, and Illyria turned to give him a frosty stare. He ignored her, grabbing his mug to finish the last of his beer. "Very funny," the Ancient replied flatly.

"Anyway, if you want to know what was going on then, I'd ask him."

"Do you know where he is?" Landon asked.

"Yes, but you're going to have to visit him tonight."

"What? Why?"

"Because you'll need to get to him before Jave warns him and he scampers."

Illyria turned her head, unable to see over the high seat of the booth they were in, but she knew that the old demon was still in the booth next to then. However, she felt it unlikely that he'd heard any of their conversation over the noise of the bar. "Why? Does he suspect us?"

"He always does. I wouldn't waste time."

Landon reached into his jacket, producing a notebook and a pen, and handed them to Gwen. Illyria forced herself not to react as the objects changed hands; the notebook was ordinary soft plastic and paper, but the pen was rugged, with a solid steel barrel. The object was handed over without incident, and a suspicion was confirmed within Illyria's mind; why Gwen would be forced to work for a contractor so far below her, why she was relatively uncovered, and her comment about a lifestyle change.

"You've lost your electrical powers," Illyria said.

Gwen glanced up at her through her long lashes, as she scribbled in the notebook. "Not lost. I know right where I left them." An annoying, cryptic answer, contradicted by the slight elevation of the woman's heartbeat; her pale skin seemed to lose another shade of colour.

Illyria pursed her lips. "If you still had control over them, you wouldn't be forced to relearn your abilities. If Jave learns of what you've done here, will you be able to defend yourself?"

"Why, Fred... is that concern for my well-being?" She closed the notebook and handed it and the pen back to the sergeant. "I'll worry about Jave. In case you've forgotten, I'm quite capable of kicking ass without frying someone."

Landon fetched out a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "If you end up in trouble at all, give me a call. I can arrange protective custody."

"Fred always did pick the sweet ones. Don't worry about me."

Illyria understood that they'd gotten all they could expect from the woman, and perhaps more than she'd hoped for. She nodded at Landon, and the big man slid out of the booth, relieved to be finally leaving the bar, excellent nachos or no.

As Landon navigated past the tables toward the door – followed by the wistful eyes of the vampire waitress – Gwen's voice caused Illyria to pause. "If I find out the story you fed me is a lie, and Charles is fine, I'm going to be _very_ unhappy. And you won't like it." She looked up at the other woman, blue eyes meeting brown.

The Ancient sneered at the threat. "And you had better not be sending us on a fool's errand."

Gwen's eyes narrowed as Fred' stood completely un-cowed, almost haughty. "You really are different."

An astonishing understatement, though the thief didn't know it. Illyria shrugged. "Losing everything you hold dear has that effect."

Gwen nodded, the two women gaining a measure of understanding. She looked back at Illyria, a bit of respect visible in her gaze. "Do you realize how much luck you've had so far?"

"Luck?" Illyria asked skeptically.

"You find out that the Watchers are being hit. You start snooping around with no evidence at all, and almost by chance you wander into the right bar, in the right city, talk to the right demon, and get pointed at the right thief who can help you out. All on nothing more than some weak guesses and a prayer. What are the chances of that?" She looked up at Illyria, and there was some curiosity in her eyes, along with sadness and suspicion. "Looks like the Powers are looking out for you, girl."

"The Powers and I are not on speaking terms," Illyria declared, suddenly angry again. And she turned, walking to where Landon waited by the door.


	20. Broken Promises

When her nighttime jaunts into Los Angeles to hunt became a regular thing, Illyria decided that, while she could easily find her way home regardless of where she wandered, it would be more pro-active to learn the layout of the city. On her trips to the library, she would make a point of selecting a book containing street maps and sitting down to memorize it. Later that night, she would often choose a destination and play her game of reaching the location without touching the ground.

As a result, she was easily able to trace the path they took as Landon manoeuvred his vehicle through the light mid-evening Los Angeles traffic. She'd glimpsed the small map Gwen had drawn only briefly, but it was sufficient to predict the endpoint. Landon himself knew the streets well, and he needed no correction as he drove, glancing occasionally at the map. The two drove in silence, the noises of the Los Angeles streets filling the air between them.

Left; a right; straight for twenty blocks. The silence could hardly be called companionable, but if the human felt no need for useless chatter – or questions or accusations – she saw no need to make up the lack. Illyria amused herself by watching the surrounding cityscape as they passed, noting alleys and the relative level of the rooftops to each other. It was still a poor section of the city, and few humans wandered the streets, although she did see a few beings who she believed to be not quite human. The few demons and other supernatural beings she saw moved through the city quietly, conducting their business, causing no trouble and seeking none, as they had for millennia.

As always, the human-made light drowned out the stars, but she was pleased to see the moon finally making an appearance between the tall buildings. The orb was waxing full, marking the crest of power for several forms of magic user, as well as the biological cycles of several species of supernatural creatures.

Landon's comrades would be busy over the next few days.

Within a few minutes, the sergeant pulled the jeep over to the side of the street and turned off the engine. With the help of his flashlight, he took one last glance at the little map, and then nodded toward an alleyway, a shadowed gap to Illyria's right. "Down there, supposedly."

Illyria nodded, and gracefully slipped out of the Jeep. Landon followed, his heavy booted feet much louder, but still not enough to be noticed amongst the noise of the surrounding city, as loud music thumped from a window further down the street, and the odd car passed by. The section of the city Gwen had directed them to was much livelier than the blocks surrounding _Jack's_, and humans could be seen travelling on foot, although never alone. The night sky stretched above them, and except for the alley, the street was reasonably illuminated by streetlights which had not been smashed, shot-out, or otherwise disabled. The light was a pleasant contrast from the oppressive dark which surrounded the bar, and the difference was reflected in Landon's confident stride, his long legs easily catching up with his erstwhile partner.

The extra light also had the effect of deepening the shadows of the alley. Landon's light, when he clicked it on again, barely pierced the gloom, its beam swallowed whole into the tall, black rectangle that sat between the two surrounding buildings. The man hesitated at the border, then stepped in, Illyria following him.

Once inside, he paused, and even the demoness had to wait a moment to allow her own eyes to adjust. With the street at their backs, it was easier to see, the alley revealed in dim lines and a palette of blacks, which lightened to greys as they watched. Illyria, with her stronger senses, adjusted faster then the human.

Unfortunately, all her greater senses managed to reveal was that the alley was bare. Brick walls towered on both sides, but neither wall contained a door, and the alley ended against another, grey-painted wall which was part of the rear of another building. Fire escapes hung over their heads, and a dumpster occupied the deepest part of the alley, but otherwise there was nothing to see. Shallow furrows in the asphalt shows that a heavy vehicle regularly parked there, but it was not present at the moment.

Landon looked about, confused. "I'm pretty sure this is the right spot. Did she send us off on a goose chase?"

The thought had crossed her mind. "That, or perhaps the vehicle which normally rests here was the actual destination."

Landon cursed softly. Squinting, Illyria searched, not willing to give up so easily. If Gwen had opted to waste their time, the thief would pay dearly for it. But... "There."

Landon spun to look where the demoness pointed, the beam of his flashlight coming up to reveal what she had seen. A pair of green-painted steel doors were embedded in the asphalt of the alley, in the shadows of the dim lighting afforded by the street lamps, nearly invisible to human eyes.

"Ugh. Please tell me we're not actually going down into the sewers." She didn't reply, even less pleased than he was at the prospect. She stared with trepidation at the doors leading to what was undoubtedly cramped, dark tunnels underneath the city.

Walking over to them and grabbing hold of the handles recessed into the steel, Landon pulled on one door; both rose a hand's breadth and then moved no further, locked together by something on the other side. "Shit," the sergeant muttered. He pulled again, with more force, but had no more success. "These aren't supposed to be locked from the inside."

He stood, and pounded one foot into the doors, attempting to knock loose whatever was jamming the entrance shut. The steel hatches bounced noisily, but remained firmly barred, accomplishing little more than letting anything with hearing within a block radius know they were coming. In the privacy of the darkness, Illyria rolled her eyes.

As his foot bounced off the door for the third time, she stepped in between, crouching down. Her fingers warped the metal of the hatch, reaching in and grabbing hold of the other steel panel. She pulled, and with a shriek of metal, the door pulled open. A rather heavy bar flopped onto the concrete steps within, and a warped brace clung to the inside of the panel, twisted and nearly torn free.

She turned to Landon. Her expression didn't quite say _Voila._

"Well," Landon remarked. To his credit, he showed little surprise. "That's handy."

"It's a gift."

That startled the cop into a grin; he quickly scurried down the steps, Illyria right behind. The darkness was consuming, and little light filtered down past them from the night above. Down the dark corridor, the odd spot lamp could be seen, although they could do little to hold back the gloom. Landon activated his small flashlight, the tiny implement barely adequate. Illyria herself needed no such assistance.

"If this guy's supposed to be down here, it could have helped if she'd mentioned it."

"Perhaps she did not know. Or he is not located very far. Regardless, exercise caution. I doubt we have the element of surprise." Landon nodded and moved forward, the demoness slipping in to walk behind him, her every sense strained to the maximum.

She despised the sewers. The concrete they walked upon was slick with moisture, dripping down the walls as it soaked through the stone and cinder blocks which made up the walls. She barely had room to stretch her arms wide, and a layer of cables, pipe, and conduit which lined one wall narrowed the corridor further. Occasionally these pipes would branch and run up through the ceiling or down through the floor, allowing water and rust to spread small stains of ochre upon the already-discoloured floor. The air was surprisingly warm; all the worse, for it made rank odours waft up from deeper in the labyrinth, and the smell was terrible. Not for the first time since her rebirth into the world of the humans did Illyria curse her better sense of smell; breathing through her mouth was no better, as she could taste the filth in the air. Ahead, she heard Landon make a choking cough, and took some comfort in the fact that at least he was suffering along with her.

"Christ, how can someone live down here? It's-"

Part of her consciousness heard the click. Another, reacting at the lightning speed of her thoughts, noted that it came from the floor. There was the _thwip _of tearing air, but she was already moving, darting forward. Landon's broad figure nearly filled the corridor, so she jammed one hand up and under his left arm, while the other reached over his right shoulder to pull him back and out of the way. In front of him, her hand slapped the crossbow quarrel which had been headed directly toward his chest, sending it careening and striking sparks off the metal pipes.

Landon jerked back with a cry, off balance from her tug to get him out of the path of the deflected projectile, his reflexes impressive but far too slow to have saved him. He staggered back against her, pushing her against the side of the corridor, and she held him upright.

"Holy shit! Holy shit!" He was gasping at the terrible air as if it was the most precious thing in the world. She extricated herself from between him and the wall, and walked over to wrench the quarrel from the pipe it had embedded itself in. Water, thankfully clean, began to trickle onto the ground.

"Goblins. A fondness for traps," she recalled, as she turned. Landon stared wide-eyed at the weapon which had nearly taken him.

The feel of her armour shifting into something more protective was comforting as she stepped forward, carefully examining the floor. Within a few seconds, she found it: a narrow steel thread strung a hand's breath above the floor, disappearing into cracks in the wall. Keeping her head down and insuring Landon was out of the way, she tugged it again. There was another click, but no projectile... the trap could only be sprung once.

With a sharper pull she snapped the line, tossing her blue-again hair over her shoulder as she stood. "Let me go first," she advised, handing the spent quarrel to him to make her point, then stepping ahead.

"I'm going to kill this asshole," Landon growled as he looked at the deadly item, his fright quickly changing into anger. He followed cautiously behind her, stuffing the quarrel into the pocket of his jacket.

Walking perhaps another hundred metres into the tunnel, she uncovered another three traps. Another crossbow trap; a stagnant pool of water that seemed innocent, until you noticed the heavy cables running into the conduits along the wall; and another wire-sprung trap which dumped diesel oil on the unfortunate beneath. Landon couldn't understand how being coated with diesel was dangerous, until she pointed at a small can of barbecue ignition fluid, tucked away amongst the nearby pipes, with what looked like a spark plug run into the top.

The tunnel was long and straight, with only the occasional ladder leading through a hatch upward, or the occasional grating leading over a tiny river of pungent water flowing below. There was nothing to guide them, and Landon questioned whether they were on the right path; Illyria pointed out that as long as they were finding traps, there was little reason to believe otherwise; a trail of deadly breadcrumbs.

Finally, Illyria held up a hand to halt their progress, closing her eyes, straining to hear.

"What is it?" her partner asked quietly. She responded by touching her finger to her lips for silence, still listening. After a moment, she pointed upward, at the hatch they'd been about to ignore like the others.

Leather-clad hands took hold of the rusty steel ladder; after testing it, she climbed the few steps up to the top. Instinct made her pause while reaching for the handle, and she carefully traced her fingers around the edge of the small door, her glove retreating to her wrist. There was a small hole in the steel which lined the concrete around the hatch. Leaning down, she plucked Landon's flashlight from his hand, ignoring his quiet noise of protest, and shone it onto the hole, revealing sharp edges and a smooth, shining interior to the steel that didn't match the aged surface.

"Give me your pen," she commanded, handing the flashlight back to him. He frowned, but obeyed, reaching into his pocket and handing her the writing utensil. She unscrewed the barrel and removed the plastic tube of ink, handing the other parts back to the cop.

"Hey now, that's my favourite pen..."

She ignored him, reaching back up to the top of the ladder. With care, she pushed the thin plastic reed into the hole. Before it was halfway in, it bumped up against something solid, but yielding. Hoping she wasn't making a terrible mistake – she'd likely survive whatever trap it was, but it would still be unacceptably embarrassing – she pressed more firmly. There was a click, but nothing else happened.

Ignoring the handle, she pushed up against the hatch, which opened easily and noiselessly. She opened it enough to insure there were no wires connected to the sides, then pushed it upward enough to stick her head cautiously upward.

It was another room, likely intended to be used for maintenance gear and tools. Windowless, it only had one door, which was marked "Pumps", and had high voltage warnings attached to it. From the other side, Illyria could hear the rumble and gurgle of equipment. The room was comfortably lit by a single utility light on the wall, and – oddly enough – a bedroom lamp standing on a metal table set up next to a well-used cot. The entire room looked like it had been redone to serve as a living space; a small table with a metal chair sat in one corner, a pair of lockers lined one wall, and a desk, complete with chair and computer, sat along the other.

Sitting in the chair with his back to the hatch, plucking away at the computer, was a thin, greenish being. He hadn't heard Illyria's entrance, as his ears were covered with a pair of large headphones, which blasted music sufficiently loud for the demoness to have heard from downstairs. Whatever the music was, he enjoyed it, bopping slightly in his chair and humming. She curled her lip in disgust at the discordant noise, which sounded annoyingly like some of the bands Marc favoured.

Confident that the creature wouldn't immediately notice them, Illyria opened the hatch fully and hopped out, gesturing for Landon to follow. The big man climbed the ladder less gracefully, more noisily, but in the end it didn't matter; she suspected the officer could have hurled a concussion grenade into the room and the goblin would barely have noticed.

Landon crouched down next to Illyria, who was poking at the back of the hatch; her instinct against using the handle had proven correct, as a pair of wires ran between it and a contact stuck to the outer part of the door. Whether completing the circuit set off an alarm or a bomb, she was unable to determine.

"Think that's him?"

She raised an eyebrow. "It is unlikely to be anyone else."

"Well, then." He stood, and stalked over to the goblin. In one smooth motion, he ripped off the headphones with one hand, while swinging the creature around with the other, causing him to shriek with surprise and fright.

"Let's talk," the cop said flatly. A big fist knotted in Trusk's hooded sweatshirt, and he used the grip move the goblin, chair and all, into the centre of the room and away from anything grab-able. Both the chair and its occupant squealed at the motion. Illyria nodded with approval; at least the human knew how to start a conversation.

"I told Trip I'd have the cash by Monday! It's on the way, I swear! I-"

"Shut up. I'm not from your bookie, or your dealer, or whoever."

Landon stood in front of Trusk, big arms crossed but not folded across his chest, towering over the comparatively diminutive demon. Illyria stepped up beside him, no-where near as formidable in height or bulk, but her leather armour and blue-tinged skin and hair marked her as inhuman, and therefore dangerous.

The goblin stared up at them with wide, worried eyes. There were no whites to his eyes, just a sickly, yellow tinge with big, black pupils. His skin was a dark green, very wrinkled, as if it wasn't as secured to the flesh below as it should be. A hawkish nose jutted out from below the big eyes, and his mouth was a thin line pulled back with fear. He was clad in simple jeans and a dark blue hoodie, and if he took care to keep his hood up and his long, slender hands hidden, Illyria guessed he would be able to walk the streets of the city with little notice.

Landon glared down at him. "I'm Sergeant Landon from the L.A.P.D. I've got some questions for you, and you're going to answer them."

That wasn't the answer Trusk was obviously expecting; his eyes opened a bit wider, and then the demon managed to summon some bravado. "Hey! Don't you need a warrant or something?" It would have been more effective had he not stuttered so much.

"Warrant?" Landon looked at him askance. "This is a sewer. A Public Works sewer." He pulled the spent quarrel from his pocket and waved it in Trusk's face. "And this is my warrant."

The goblin flinched at the sight of the weapon. "That's not mine."

"No? Well, I'm sure if I call a team here, they won't find anything interesting at all." He put the quarrel back into his pocket. "You're going to be making a visit to the station, get used to the idea. Whether or not you answer my questions now will determine how comfortable the ride is."

His eyes darted between the two of them. "What questions?"

"I want to know about Jave. And I want to know about the jobs Wolfram and Hart has been getting you to do."

Trusk's green skin bleached to a sickly shade. "I don't know who you're talking about."

"No? Well, I think you do. And she thinks you do." He indicated Illyria, who continued to stare at the goblin with a flat, unblinking gaze. "And trust me on this: she's pretty goddamned stubborn, and doesn't handle disappointment very well."

"I am not pleased to be in this place," she agreed, "and I will not have it be for nothing. I can leave with your words in my ears, or your ears in my hands. You choose."

Long, pointed ears folded back against his skull at the threat. The demon looked nervously at the demoness, and then back at the cop. "Is this supposed to be a good cop, bad cop thing?"

"I am not a cop," Illyria pointed out.

"I tend to lump people done up in blue together."

"I was curious how long it would take for someone to make a comment like that. I expected it sooner."

"Marc is slipping," Landon said.

"Obviously."

The two turned to stare at Trusk. After some long moments of fidgeting under their impatient glares, it became obvious he wasn't going to willingly say anything.

Landon sighed. "Okay. I'll go call a squad car to take him in. I'll have to go outside, I won't get any signal in here." He gave Illyria a significant glance. "Can you take care of him while I do?"

Trusk exploded. "What?"

Catching his meaning, Illyria grinned ferally at the human. "I can handle him easily. You may take your time."

"You can't leave me here with her," Trusk pleaded. He tried to stand, but Illyria grabbed his shoulder and slammed him back down into his chair, giving him a small taste of her strength. "Come on, man!"

"You see this?" Landon pulled out the quarrel and waved it again in Trusk's face. "This was aimed at _me_, you little shit. And now you want my charity? This is a weapons charge, and I'm going to make sure you don't wander away from it, and she's going to babysit you to make sure you don't. If you pissed off Illyria here at the same time, then that's between you and her."

"Illyria..." Trusk choked. If possible, his eyes opened even further, practically bulging from the sockets. He looked up at the demoness frightfully, and shrank back into his chair.

Illyria regarded him through narrowed eyes. She squeezed a bit where she still held his shoulder. "You recognize my name."

"Ow! Okay, man! Weapons charge. I'll come along, I'll be quiet, I'll plead guilty... just take me with you!"

"_Not_ good enough for _me_," Illyria growled.

"Come on! You're asking about _Wolfram and Hart_! You don't screw around with them! They'll kill me!"

"What do you think _my_ intent is, fool?"

"Illyria..." Landon said warningly, reminding her that some things, as a cop, he should not be forced to hear, and that she shouldn't take the game too far. She scowled at him, but silenced herself.

Landon paused, thinking of something. He leaned down, and spun the quarrel between his fingers in front of him. "Weapons charge, Trusk. You'll need a lawyer, obviously. I'm sure Wolfram and Hart would be willing to represent you. They seem to have taken an interest in the freak cases lately." The goblin squeaked in protest. "Unless you can tell me some reason why Wolfram and Hart is unsuitable."

Trusk looked between them, obviously confused, trying to work out the angles, and not seeing one that left him with all his extremities intact. He crumpled. "Fine. I'll give you the gossip, but you _have_ to let me go." He muttered under his breath, "It'll give me time to run."

Landon nodded, straightening. "I'm not all that interested in you. Give me something interesting, and we'll call it an apology'." He waved the quarrel once, and then placed it back into his pocket.

"Start with how you knew my name," Illyria demanded.

Trusk glanced fearfully up at her. "Jave warned us about you. Said that Wolfram and Hart had warned him, that you and them had had some kind of tussle. I guess they were worried that you'd start hitting some of their operations. Especially ours, since you were, like, the girlfriend of some Watcher guy."

Illyria quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Landon picked up the ball. "So you've been doing jobs for Wolfram and Hart, something the Watchers maybe object to. What kind of jobs?"

"Hey, you only come to Jave and Trusk for one thing... to get stuff. The Watchers have vaults scattered all over the world. Not big things, just caches of magic stuff, books, artifacts... Orbs of Thesulah, Excalibur, Hitler's panties... that kind of thing. They keep the stuff spread out so losing one vault doesn't lose it all, and because some of the magic stuff will react to each other.

"The story was that the Watchers had lost most of their brass last year in a bombing, and they needed help to open their own vaults, and they were willing to trade Wolfram and Hart some of the minor stuff in return for recovering the rest. Supposedly they were friendlier with the Los Angeles branch after some change in management a couple of years ago." He shrugged. "It's a pretty friggin' weak story, and I didn't believe it. But I'm not paid to, so I didn't care."

"So they flew you around the country, cracking safes," Landon said. Trusk nodded. "Did one of these places include Athens, Georgia?" Trusk nodded again unhappily, clearly expecting where the line of questioning was going. Landon got down into the goblin's face, his own expression grim. "Did you happen to kill a man while you were doing that job?"

"I didn't kill anybody. I don't kill. I'm a vegetarian, for crying out loud!" Trusk protested.

"Somebody was killed that night. If you didn't do it, who did?"

"It was Dreven... this guy that was escorting me around in Georgia for W'n'H while I was there. He insisted on coming along on the job, I sure as hell didn't want him there. He was half the reason why I was slow getting it done... always getting in the way, yelling at me, dropping stuff. We went way over schedule, and then that old guy came into the vault..." He trailed off. He looked up at Illyria worriedly. "Oh, crap. Was that your boyfriend?"

"What? No!" Illyria's lips twisted as if she'd bitten into something sour. Trusk let out a visible sigh of relief.

"So this Dreven guy worked directly for Wolfram and Hart," Landon asked.

"Yeah, they always had a babysitter in each city. Athens, Salem, Montreal, St. Louis. They mostly just drove me around, gave me the scrolls for the spells to dissolve wards, and so on. Most of them knew how to stay out of the way. Not this guy. And then he knifed that old guard..."

"So where would we go to find this Dreven?"

"I'm not sure you could find him at all."

"Why? He run off?"

"Run off the end of a pier, maybe. Current talk is that he's dead."

"Dead?" Landon growled with annoyance. "How?"

Trusk shrugged helplessly. "How should I know? He wasn't the kind of demon I liked to hang out with, you know? Maybe Jave or Wolfram and Hart decided to get rid of him after he screwed up. Maybe he crossed one of the Slayers... they're all over the place, lately. Or maybe he got drunk and drove off a dock... I don't know. And I don't _want_ to know."

The green demon sighed. "I just know that Jave's been keeping me off jobs since then. He's been paying me a retainer, and it's not like I've got a house payment. But it's been _boring_." He looked up at Landon and nearly beamed, his wrinkled face taking on the wistful, dreamy quality of someone talking about a beautiful woman, or an expensive car. "Those Watcher guys... they know how to build vaults, I tell you. Magic wards, secret compartments, the whole deal. Real works of art. It's a blast trying to get through them. If they'd ever decide to update their technology, they'd be impossible. Hell, without the help from that Pryce guy-"

"_What?_" Illyria suddenly shouted, surprising both males. "_What _did you say?"

With Landon giving orders and asking the questions, it was almost easy to forget that the forbidding woman had been standing there. Trusk was forcibly reminded when she spun him about to snarl into his face. "_What_ Pryce guy'?"

It took the goblin a second to make his voice work again. "This... this guy... Wendel Pryce or something... he used to work for the Watchers. He's been giving us some guides, intel, you know..."

"You lie," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"N-No! Jave was saying that W'n'H had some ex-Watcher guy helping them out! Some guy they managed to recruit. He knew where the vaults were, and how they were put together... he wanted something from the vaults, it was some kind of trade-"

"Illyria-" Landon began.

"_You lie!_" The chair went flying as she suddenly grabbed Trusk by the throat, lifting the slender demon into the air as if he weighed no more than a paper doll. His feet kicked wildly as he was suspended in midair, and he grabbed her arm, but he might as well have wrestled a steel press.

"Illyria!"

"You lie! Give me truth! Did you see him? _Did you see him?_" She worried him in midair like a cat shaking a mouse, and any answer he could have given was trapped in his throat by the unyielding pressure of her hand. He gasped and choked as he clawed at her leather-clad arm.

Snarling, her rage towering, she was preparing to hurl him against the wall with deadly force when a large hand grabbed hold of the arm which held the goblin. Landon growled in her ear. "Illyria... Put... him... _down_."

Illyria hissed back at him. "Do you think you could possibly stop me?"

"I think you promised me that _I_ would call the shots," he snarled. "_My rules_, Illyria! And if you want to play your game, then yes, I _will_ try to stop you. And whether I succeed or fail, you're going to end up back where you were at the beginning... alone."

Glaring at him, Illyria briefly considered killing them both. But that would gain her nothing; she needed information, now more than ever. She released Trusk, though not gently – merely opening her hand and letting him tumble painfully to the concrete floor. The demon whimpered, wheezing and coughing as he swallowed precious air. Shaking off his grip, the Ancient turned and stalked to the other side of the room, crossing her arms and turning her back, an insult to both of them. Landon was too honourable to capitalize on it, even if he recognized it for the slight it was. And the demon... oh, how she wished he would try.

"I didn't see him, I swear," Trusk managed to get out between coughs. "Just... stories. From Jave. Some ex-Watcher who's after something from the vaults, that was his commission from the Council, according to the cover story. Some magic item used by the old human tribes to drive off the Old Ones..."

"Old Ones'?" Landon asked, quizzically.

"Me," Illyria commented over her shoulder. Trusk cowered at the sound of her voice, but her anger was evaporating quickly, leaving a disquieting emptiness. A hallow in her belly, like when she'd viewed the ruins of her temple for the first time... or when she'd invaded Vail's home, to find Wesley lying upon the floor. Landon watched her carefully; she returned to ignoring them both, although it was obvious to everyone, even herself, that she was merely sulking.

The silence stretched out, punctuated only by Trusk's coughs, and Illyria imagined she could almost hear the human's mind working. Plodding, compared to her own, and single-threaded, but relentless and methodical – like gears, grinding up the facts. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It was the kind of mind she could respect, in other circumstances.

After a moment, he spoke. "I think that's all we need to know now." She heard a tap of metal, and when she turned around, she was surprised to see him climbing down the ladder. Trusk was no less shocked; he cast worried eyes up at her, afraid that he was being abandoned in the clutches of the violent Ancient.

Ignoring the goblin, she strode over to the hatch; instead of climbing down, she merely let herself drop, landing on the slimy concrete below with a thump, just as Landon was taking his first steps away.

"We're leaving?" she protested.

"We're done here."

Grabbing his jacket, she forced him to stop. "We've asked but two questions! He has more to say!"

"No, he doesn't," was his reply. He twisted his arm around, pulling his jacket free of her grip.

"What of his traps? What of the attack on you? Hadn't you planned to charge him at least on that?"

"_Yes!_" he growled. He leaned toward her, face grim. "I _had_ planned on doing that. But then _you_ lost it, and decided to rough him up. I can't touch him now. I pull him in, and the DA is going to laugh in my face... with our luck, Wolfram and Hart _would_ be his defence lawyers!" He closed his eyes, trying to get his anger under control. When he looked at her again, he grimaced. "I'm going to puke down here. I need some fresh air." And he turned on his heel, marching away.

She stared at his back, flabbergasted, as he left; yet something kept her quiet as she followed, suffering the indignity of scurrying as she attempted to keep up with his long-legged stride.

Within just a few minutes they were back above-ground, and without a thought she shifted back into her "street" clothes; Landon fussed with the hatch leading into the sewers, but found no way to lock them again, finally just closing them and leaving them. Illyria followed him back to his vehicle, still without a word having been exchanged, climbing into the passenger side and waiting.

He did not take out his keys, and did not start the Jeep.

After a moment, he spoke. "Are we finished?"

Illyria blinked. It was not the question or accusation she'd been expecting. "What?"

He turned to her, and anger was visible in his features. "Are we finished? Because I am not going to be escorting you around and watching you assault our leads."

"Demons respect _strength_, Sergeant Landon. If you want answers from one, you must prove yourself their superior-"

"Don't give me that. You were out of control in there! You were going to kill him!"

"He was lying to us! A tale spun of dreams! He attempts to confuse us, or lure us into some trap."

"_What_ trap? He pretty much flat-out said that Wolfram and Hart was gathering materials useful for fighting Ancients... fighting _you_! Personally, I find that pretty believable!"

"It isn't possible!"

"Why not?"

"Because..." She paused, unsure of what about she was about to say. "Because if Wesley is alive, he would not do such a thing."

The doubt in her voice was obvious. Landon turned to her, leaning his arm on the steering wheel. "And why is that? Who is this Wesley guy to you? What are you to him?"

_Tell him!_

She didn't know if the voice was the ghost child's or her own. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell over the previous weeks. Was she being influenced? Was she "adapting"? Either idea was abhorrent – and she longed for a time when the world was more direct, without an uppity human demanding answers from her, while she worried about the "Illyria-ness" of her own thoughts.

_Tell him!_

"He was my guide." Yes, that voice was hers. Landon raised an eyebrow, expecting more. "He was my companion, my jailer, my _qua'ha xahn_. I do not know the exact description for our relationship. He was responsible for keeping _control_ of me during my time at Wolfram and Hart, for introducing me to this new world and teaching me what was needed for me to exist here."

"This is the same Wesley guy Reilly mentioned, the one who might be the Watcher's Council security leak?"

"Yes."

"I thought he was dead."

"So did I."

"But it doesn't sound like he'd be doing this willingly, if his father was a Watcher and he was your caretaker..."

"No. He had reason to dislike the Watchers, reason to dislike his father," she admitted. Her throat was beginning to hurt, a mindless ache she dismissed as a flaw of the shell. She looked up at the human; he was watching her intently, and she wished the fool would stare elsewhere. "And he had a great deal of reason to hate me."

"Hate enough to kill?"

"Perhaps. He had tried before."

"And _this_ was the person you had as a... guide'?"

"His intent was not murder, nor even truly my death." She pursed her lips, aware of the contradictions in her own words. "Perhaps hate is an inappropriate word. I had killed his lover, and I wore her body." Landon started at this revelation, so she explained further. "It was not done by my choice, and he understood this; but he wished for her return... at any price. If he could not have her, then her likeness was sufficient. He would not accept an imitation, but a reflection would do."

"Jesus." His voice had a strange lilt to it. "That's all kinds of screwed up."

"He was unbalanced by her loss," she admitted. "But he was all I had in this new world of the humans, and I was all that was left of what he had once valued."

"So you think he survived that night, and now is looking for payback?"

"Whether he survived or not means nothing. Wolfram and Hart is powerful, and quite capable of defying death's grip over one of their employees. And if they brought him back, he could well have been warped and twisted by the process." Internally, her aspects argued over the possibility, and she cursed herself for not thinking of it before. Another part of her mind berated herself for seizing upon the idea, again, that if Wesley was alive and had betrayed her, that he'd done so against his will.

Second-guessing herself. Another despicable mortal trait to which she found herself victim.

Landon sighed in frustration as he leaned back against his seat, running his hand roughly through his hair in frustration. The street lights filtered through his close-cropped hair, making him seem haloed. "I assumed we were dealing with stolen notes or something, some actual material we could find and connect back to Wolfram and Hart. Now you're telling me this Pryce guy might be up and walking around, giving them information straight from his own mouth."

"It is a possibility."

Landon sighed. "I'm going to have to put that in my report."

Illyria frowned. "So what do we do now?"

"Now? I'm going to write up some of this and present it to my Captain. He'll look it over, and decide whether it's enough to get the FBI or Homeland Security involved. He might ask me to dig up more, or not. I dunno."

"That's all?"

He fixed her with a glare. "That's all I ever promised."

Illyria growled. She sat back in her own seat, and crossed her arms, displeased. "I am faced with the possibility that Wesley is not dead, and is assisting the Wolf, Ram, and Hart in obtaining artifacts useful for destroying me. Tomorrow, you shall write a _report_. This is not the outcome I envisioned."

"There's a lot of that going around." And with that, he started the Jeep, and pulled away.


	21. Discontent

Rooftops blazed by beneath her feet. Occasionally it was the crunch of gravel; sometimes tar; once, she clanged across a tin roof, sure-footed despite the smooth metal, the sound of her passage ringing like a steelpan drum. Then there was the silences, when she would fling herself into the air, jumping impossibly high to reach the next building in her route. Marc called what she did _parkour._ The word sounded French, but she didn't know what it meant, and hadn't cared enough to bother looking it up. It was sufficient to know that it was her favourite activity, after fighting and reading.

Illyria, former god-king of the world, reading and running... she was a humiliated caricature of herself. She preferred not to think about that – a very human reaction, but she preferred not to think about _that_, either.

The jaunt had been long and wide-ranging, nearly three hours of leaping from roof to roof in the dead of the night. She'd stumbled across few demons or vampires, which was unfortunate, as a good brawl was all that was left to make the night perfect. The evil demons had taken to avoiding "her" section of the city, as the stories of a brutal and deadly demon-hunter circulated amongst the underworld. The area around the Hyperion had always been risky once Angel had moved in... but Illyria's recreation had pushed the borders back by far. Ironically enough, the area was becoming known as one of the safest places for humans, and more people could be seen wandering the streets after nightfall than anywhere else in the city since the Demon Riots'.

Of course, the lack of "viable" targets made it harder for the demoness to have any real fun. But she found she didn't mind. Perhaps her reputation could be rebuilt, one dusty corpse at a time. She should be pleased... fear was power. Power was everything. The humans denied it, but it dictated every aspect of their lives. Their relationships, their politics, their economics, even their scientific pursuits.

But something didn't feel right.

A leap, and the brief moment of only the wind as her companion as she soared through the air, over a street to the roof of a small market on the other side. A lone human, likely a vagrant, shuffled along the pavement, never looking up to catch the reddish shape which flashed by overhead.

It had been a mere three days since she'd finished her "mission" with Sergeant Landon. He'd assured her that while what they'd discovered was far too much hearsay for direct action against Wolfram and Hart, it would certainly catch attention within a human government currently very sensitive to being accused of "ignoring non-human influences". The firm had no friends before the demon riots. Now, being under the scope of a nervous human populace could damage them irreparably. As always, there were human politicians eager to exploit the tension that held the nation, to focus it in some way that would make themselves look like champions. It was a form of plotting that Illyria could respect.

What was this sense of discontent, then? There was the obvious, of course... in her time, justice – as dictated by herself – had been swift, efficient, and extremely violent. In short: satisfying. The pace and procedure favoured by humans confused her, especially when it was obvious that the Wolf, Ram, and Hart had built themselves a considerable power base in exactly that arena. But this was no longer her world, as Wesley had told her... repeatedly. And though it galled her to admit it, even to herself, she longer had the power to confront Wolfram and Hart as she would prefer. Their last battle had nearly been her end.

Her consciousness spun, in multiple directions, as it always did; always aware, always thinking. She _had_ no subconscious. She did not get "gut feelings" as Angel and Spike had always relied upon. If Spike was here, she'd ask him what this leaden sensation in the belly of her shell meant. If Wesley...

No. She would not have asked him.

She increased her pace slightly. The streets and human constructions passed swiftly beneath her feet. Her small, slender form was light and easy to throw about; sometimes she could gain enough altitude to feel like she was in her old body again. The night wrapped around her like a cloak, with street lights and the occasional store front lighting the city in the still-dark hours of the morning, like stars below to make up for the lack of stars above. At these hours, it was possible for even Los Angeles to become silent. And that helped her mind to become silent; no human voices, no rumbling of engines, or any of the other reminders of modern life, the life which sickened and intrigued her at the same time.

Perhaps, she reflected, her sense of anticipation/foreboding had more to do with the sudden cessation of the unexplained memories that would come to her during her meditations. She hadn't realized that she desired them until they stopped. And at the same time the Child had stopped appearing, though she was certainly less missed. And at the same time, the question had remained unanswered: _Why_?

_I can only be here when you want me._

"What-" Illyria's head snapped around at the familiar voice, just as she began her leap to the next roof. There was a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of a small, lithe form, a shadow amongst shadows, and even her supernatural senses couldn't be sure that she'd actually seen anything.

The sudden surprise caused her to jump too hard. The retaining wall shattered under her foot, spending the force from her legs into empty air, sending the leather-clad demoness fumbling. Arms pinwheeled as she found herself in mid-air, her arc carrying her well short of the other rooftop two body-lengths above her.

"Oh, crap."

The parts of Illyria's mind that weren't suddenly concerned with the inevitable outcome of _gravity_ found themselves amused that those words had come from her own mouth. One aspect wondered what caused it. Another part snidely noted that tumbling through the air four stories up was well-sufficient cause.

Crashing into the side of the next building, her hand snapped out and seized a drainage pipe that ran down the length of the structure. The iron creaked in protest as her hand nearly crushed it, staying her fall as she bounced roughly against the brick. Her feet dangled above the alley, which was bare and dark in the starless night just before the dawn.

Silently berating herself, she secured her grip, looking up to see if she could climb to the roof. The pipe would have none of it; with a snap a rusty section above her shattered, and with a squeal of tortured retaining straps, peeled away from the wall. The Old One was left suspended briefly in the middle of the gap – before the insolent, cowardly tube gave up, shearing away completely. Then she was in free fall again, a useless piece of deformed metal in her hand.

A four-storey drop, and she landed on her feet like a cat, crouching to absorb the energy. The concrete walk she landed on webbed beneath her from the impact.

Illyria stood, unharmed, but glaring at the piece of crushed and warped pipe in her hand as if it had personally insulted her. Tossing it aside with a growl, she looked up, and saw a single human standing in the doorway to the nearby building. He was heavy, an apron spread across his round belly, powdered with flour. Unshaven and balding, a hairnet was stretched over his head in comic denial of reality. He stared at her, eyes wide, and the cigarette he'd been smoking during his break hung limply from his lips. The smell of fresh bread filled the alley from the open door behind him, mixing unappetizingly with the burning tobacco.

The two stared at each other for a long moment, and it was actually Illyria who cracked first. The demoness snapped impatiently, "_What_?"

He didn't answer, instead just turning and walking stiffly into the building, closing the door quietly behind him. His expression didn't change.

Snorting, she turned away, looking up at the lightening sky, where the occasional cloud shifted from purple to pink as they scudded across her sight. Dawn was coming, and the humans were beginning to rouse. She might as well walk the rest of the way... her game for the night was finished.

With a thought, her red-brown armour morphed into jeans and a jacket; and likewise the blueness of her lips, hair, and skin, the signs of her demon taint, faded into more human colours. After pausing a moment to inspect her appearance, Illyria began her walk home.

--------

"_My fellow Americans, as you all know, the world, or at least our perceptions of it, experienced a dramatic shift months ago..."_

With a yawn, Connor fairly staggered down the stairs of the Hyperion, wrapped up in his housecoat. Though the sun shone merrily through the windows of the former hotel, it was still far too early for his tastes.

It was partially his own fault, of course. He'd insisted on picking Lorne up from his red-eye flight into LAX from Vegas the night before, despite the demon insisting he could take a cab. Lorne thought Connor was just a really nice kid – Connor was honest enough with himself to know that it had less to do with pure niceness than it did with lingering guilt from his mistreatment of the demon after his return from Quor'Toth, even if the psychic didn't remember it.

At least it had been a pleasant drive. Lorne certainly liked to talk. And Connor may have been bred to brood, but he did like to listen.

The television echoed throughout the lobby. Marc, for all that he put conscious effort into exemplifying the lazy college student, had a fondness for early mornings that Connor thought quite deplorable. But then the young man was part _Brousha_, and maybe that species liked mornings. Certainly not half-vampires, or _dhampirs_, or whatever the hell Wyndham-Price had said he was.

How had he known that, anyway, when the rest of the planet still remembered differently? It made Connor vaguely nervous. His own memories might be fuzzy, but he could still remember both Angel and Holtz each being vaguely dismissive of the Council of Watchers... describing them as insular and neglectful in some instances, overzealous and self-righteous at others. He'd seen all demonstrated in Roger Wyndham-Price. That the Council would have blocked or overcome Vail's spell, and kept tabs on him besides, was disconcerting.

At least he didn't have a Slayer beating down his door. That would suck.

Dismissing those unhappy thoughts as pointless paranoia worthy of "Old Connor", he walked into the small room that served as the group's television room. Marc had an annoying habit of taking the small coffee maker into the room with him when he worked or watched television, instead of leaving it at the greeting desk. Growling at him didn't work, and he couldn't get leverage with the others – neither Illyria nor Lorne drank coffee.

Marc sat on the small couch, watching the television with interest, a near-empty bowl of cereal balanced on his leg. Connor recognized a replay of the previous night's Presidential Address, a long-overdue government acknowledgement of the events in Los Angeles months ago, being taken apart by the talking heads on the morning news. He ignored it, concentrating on the object of his quest, sitting on the coffee table.

The pot managed to dribble out little more than a quarter of a cup. Connor sighed in the disgust.

"Sorry. Didn't expect you up for another hour or two," Marc shrugged, not taking his eyes off the television.

Connor said nothing, recognizing this as one of the many petty arguments with his friend that wouldn't accomplish anything, writing off his crankiness to caffeine withdrawal. He reached down and just barely restrained his own strength as he pulled the cord from the wall. Wrecking the coffee maker, or whipping himself in the face with the plug, wouldn't do anything but embarrass himself.

As he stood, lifting the coffee maker, he noticed that Marc really _was_ fixated on the news broadcast. "You okay?"

Marc's eyes flickered up to him, and he shrugged. "Fine. Just trying to figure out how this is going to all play out."

The show was playing a different clip from the president's address. _"- Our emphasis is, and always has been, the safety and security of the American people. To this effect, I will reveal to you now, that this government has been aware of these happenings for many decades, and has even commissioned studies-"_

In his mind, Connor ran through the rest of what he could remember of the speech from the previous night. Like most presidential speeches, the Commander in Chief had said a lot without saying much at all; but the statement that the government had known of the underworld all along was itself a massive admission, sending shock waves that reached well beyond the United States. The President had, of course, pawned off the decision for secrecy onto previous administrations. And grabbed the opportunity to accuse some of the anti-American forces around the world of being led by demons – and for once, Connor suspected he was probably right.

He tried to think of anything else that might be worrisome, and came up blank. "It's mostly just an acknowledgement, isn't it? Plus some open research commissions, and some extra funding for law enforcement specific to demons, isn't it? Nothing specific."

Marc scowled. "That's the problem. Nothing specific. No mention that a lot of these demons have _always_ been here, and the world hasn't ended. That a lot of these people go to work, pay their taxes, and just want to be left alone. Law enforcement specific to demons' can mean a lot of things."

Connor avoided mentioning that the world very nearly _had_ ended, several times, because Marc wouldn't remember it (thanks to Wolfram and Hart), and because Connor had had a hand in causing one of the incidents. His friend was tense, almost upset, which was very different from the cheerful, carefree demeanour he usually had. He put the coffee maker back down on the table, and sank down to the edge of the couch. "The demons who don't cause problems haven't changed, no... but the ones who do, they're freer to move around, sorta. Like the magic shop."

"They're not freer... they never cared in the first place. People just didn't notice them, or didn't _want_ to notice them. But people are certainly going to notice government enforcement squads. And they're going to wonder what makes these people worthy of special law enforcement, and draw conclusions."

Government enforcement squads'. The unspoken translation hung in the air: _death squads_. The Slayers writ large, with massive backing. The Watchers' Council was often bigoted, arrogant and deadly, but until recently it'd only had one Slayer. Often obedient, but sometimes she could be reasoned with... the _one_ girl in all the world' usually knew better than to pick fights she didn't need.

But there was no reasoning with public opinion.

"It won't turn out that way," Connor assured him, "Landon wasn't on a witch hunt." His friend looked up, and Connor noticed that his eyes had turned a slate grey... signs that the small pills he normally used were starting to wear off. The young man was almost completely human – more so than even Connor could claim – but enough of his tainted blood remained to put him in danger from a nervous human populace.

"He was, actually," Marc replied dryly. "Remember that we went to him with some unprovable claims, and he didn't hide the fact that his investigation' was really a fishing expedition, looking for _something_ to go after Wolfram and Hart for later. Do you really think the cops would waste their time on weak-ass stuff like that before the Riots? They're paranoid. We gave them a hint at some _bigger_ demons and they went for it."

He sighed. "_Demon_. It doesn't help that the word is associated with evil. The Greeks knew that _daemons_ could be good or bad, like people... humans."

An uncomfortable silence covered the room. Connor couldn't say anything reassuring that wouldn't sound weak and stupid... or hypocritical. Marc was far too smart to be given platitudes. Worse, he could see it from both sides. He could remember when he was fully indoctrinated by Holtz. If it wasn't human, it deserved to die. And Stephen' hadn't been nearly so human as he thought... simply self-deluded and self-righteous.

Not for the first time, Connor wished Wesley had never smashed that stupid box.

Marc looked at him again, wearing a different kind of frown. "Where's Illyria, anyway?"

This, at least, was easier ground. "She was heading out for a run when me and Lorne came in last night. She's probably still out. She'll be okay."

His friend paused before answering. "I'm not sure I'm worried _for_ her."

--------

Landon sighed, leaning back in his desk chair, slightly regretting his return to normal duty. Paperwork was stacked high on his desk from his brief absence, and he'd already had to deal with one crisis with his team at two am that morning – a drunk deadbeat father taking his wife and daughters hostage, threatening to kill them. No freaks involved, for once. Although he sometimes wished there had been, seeing how low humanity could sink.

The after-action report sat in front of him, waiting to be handed in. The mother carried out on a stretcher, fighting for her life at UCLA Medical; father carried out in a body bag. Children okay, although they weren't going to sleep well for a long time, he suspected. He'd already sent MacAvoy home, to sleep or puke or get drunk. He'd assured the young man it'd been a righteous shooting, and it had been, but that never made taking a life easier... not even the life of some lowlife bastard who was going to kill his own wife and kids.

He couldn't believe he'd been looking forward to getting back to this.

"Boring you?" Henderson asked, raising a copper-coloured eyebrow. She was leaning against his desk, her uniform shirt hanging open to reveal the tank top underneath, which Landon was doing his damned best to ignore. She'd had her own adventures while he'd been away from the unit, of course, and was filling him in on the goings-on.

"'Course not. So this guy managed to track the kid?"

"The kid _and_ the weirdo. He was really helpful, really professional. Wasn't too happy about having to sniff his way through the sewers, mind you, but I don't blame him. Backed off when we found the guy's trailer, stayed out of the way. I get the feeling he's volunteered for this stuff before."

"And the boy?"

"He's fine, back with his mother. The freak had painted him up with some weird symbols, but hadn't actually done any damage yet... not physical, anyway. Him and his mom are getting a checkup with the departmental psych. I don't think either one of them are going to be campaigning for demon rights', though."

He hesitated before asking the real question. "Did you really have to kill him?"

Asked any other way, it was the kind of question that could end a friendship. But she knew that tone of voice; knew what had happened the night before. Knew that the leader of a squad of heavily-armed police officers wasn't just charged with defending his teams' lives when the shit hit the fan, but sometimes their souls as well. She'd gotten a taste of that while he'd been off on assignment.

"Yeah," she responded, absolutely sure. "The knife was in the air... we didn't have time to talk."

Landon nodded without hesitation. For all of her red-headed temper, Jackie was the most level-headed person he knew. If she said there was no choice, there was no choice. But that made for three kids in a forty-eight hour period that had seen someone blown away in front of them by cops. Sure, only one of them had been human, but he didn't like the permanent association they'd have in those childrens' minds.

_And then the policeman came, and he killed the bad guys, and everyone lived happily ever after..._

After a moment, he shook his head. At Henderson's quizzical look, he sighed again. "The world's upside down. A kid, kidnapped by a demon, for some kind of _magic_ ritual. Not the kind of delusional shit from some deluded nutbar living in his mom's basement, but the real thing. Is that the kind of normal we have now? Could we have even held him if we'd taken him alive?" His hand unconsciously found the report sitting on his desk, ready to be presented, as he thought about Illyria. There was no way someone like her could be caged. And he'd been getting her help evaluating a possible threat that, while not _frightened_, she'd grudgingly admitted had been far more powerful than her.

Henderson seemed to know what kind of thoughts he'd been thinking. "Hey, it balances out. The bad guys do what they always do... be bad. But now some of the good guys aren't scared of helping openly. That tracker guy was a great asset, even left his contact information in case we needed his help again. You'd like him... all mellow and stuff. I think Lopez has a new best friend, they were talking music and guitars for hours."

He smirked. "You just want to work with him again. All that animal magnetism."

That managed to get a blush from her. "Please. I was raised by beatniks, I'm tired of beads and talismans. And the werewolf thing... well, actually, that's kinda hot. But the last thing I need is for my cycle to sync up with his. PMS and lycanthropy make for bad domestic disputes."

Landon guffawed despite himself. Henderson grinned, pleased at making him laugh.

He checked the small clock on his desk and sighed. He picked up the report he'd been fingering. "Time for my meeting with the Chief and the Homeland Security guy."

Henderson understood. "Enjoy."

He snorted as he stood, expressing his opinion on _that_. "Give Stern's place another call. If you don't get a response, have one of the beat cops run by his place." She nodded.

Stern. Another problem. He hadn't taken kindly to being shown-up by a civilian during the kidnapping, an almost-freak civilian at that. The guy was a jerk at the best of times, skirting the edge of disciplinary action a number of times since the Riots... but recently Landon was becoming forced to upgrade him to bigoted asshole'. But asshole or not, he was a SWAT member, and the department got nervous when their officers didn't show up for their shifts, nor respond to telephone calls. A revenge attack at home was every cop's nightmare, and happened far too often for anyone's liking.

He tried to put that thought out of his head as he navigated his way out of the cubical farm' toward the meeting room near the Chief's office, adjusting his uniform, the corridors between the cubicals just barely wide enough to accommodate his shoulders. The room had large windows, and the privacy curtains hadn't been closed; they rarely were unless an officer was being disciplined, and as a result closing them tended to cause more rumours than leaving them open. He could see the Chief sitting down beside a tall man in a suit, nodding as they both reviewed a file on the table in front of them. Landon cursed softly under his breath; he'd hoped to be in the room before either the Chief or the Homeland Security spook had a chance to rehearse what they were going to ask him.

Despite that, he knocked politely on the open door, allowing them to acknowledge him before entering.

"Ah, Sergeant Landon", the Chief said as both men stood. "This is Agent DeMoine from Homeland Security... Agent DeMoine, Sergeant Landon, in charge of my SWAT."

DeMoine, to his credit, didn't smile like a wannabe politician, or frown like a secret agent. He gave a businesslike nod that was a little bit more than perfunctory. He wasn't handsome or ugly enough to draw attention, and likewise his grey suit wasn't so impeccably tailored as to mark him as someone important. The only hint of arrogance and position of power was in the handshake. As usual, Landon hulked over the other man, shaking hands over the meeting table – but he suspected he would have been the one expected to stretch across even if he hadn't had the longer reach.

"We were just going over your report, Sergeant," the Chief commented, gesturing at the chair he expected Landon to take. They all sat down simultaneously. "It looks like you had a bit of an adventure."

"It was a bit more than expected, yes sir," he admitted honestly.

"Your report was detailed and well-written, Sergeant," DeMoine commented, flipping through some of the last pages of his copy. He stacked the papers and slid them slightly to the side, beside the briefcase he had sitting on the table beside him. He lifted the case's lid, plucking out a small stack of folders. He did not offer the folders to Landon, instead flipping one open in front of him.

He pulled a pen from a pocket, and looked up at the sergeant. "As you probably already know if you heard the President's speech last night, we've known about these demons for quite some time. So some of the parts of your report aren't news... we know about the squatters in the sewers, for example, and the bars where these creatures like to meet. That's not to say your efforts were wasted, however."

He used the pen to tap the sheet of papers he'd pushed to the side. "The vigilante service of the Slayer' girl is valuable, for example. We'd last heard of a similarly-titled young lady in Ohio... your report confirms our suspicions that they'd abandoned their one girl' policy, though we don't know why. Likewise, your accounting of the kinds of deals that go on inside these demon bars will help me convince my superiors to allocate more manpower toward monitoring them."

Landon nodded. "It looks like Wolfram and Hart have a lot of tentacles into those places. The Lorne guy had some useful third-hand information, and actually told me to look up a former detective for the 4th Precinct, a Kate Lockley. I dug up her record, and she was put out on mental for saying stuff that nobody believed at the time, a lot of it about Wolfram and Hart, but now-"

DeMoine held up a hand to interrupt. "We've actually already spoken to Miss Lockley. The Wolfram and Hart matter is in hand, although I'm sure you'll appreciate we have to move carefully when dealing with a multinational firm like them. Lockley has agreed to help us on a consulting basis."

The Chief added, "And you might be interested in knowing that the 4th is actively trying to rehire her. She's refused so far, but you might end up working with her in the future."

DeMoine's lips pressed into a line at the diversion, but he didn't react otherwise, simply bringing the discussion back on track. "What I'd like to ask you centres on some of the other details of your fact-finding. To go forward, we'll need to know more about some the people who brought this all to your attention. You did your own background check on Reilly, but some of the others we only have basic information on."

Landon nodded, slightly confused, but it was a reasonable request – one couldn't launch a full investigation at the word of a known lunatic or troublemaker. The agent slid the open folder ahead slightly, close enough that Landon was able to catch the handwritten label on the side: _Winifred Burkle/Illyria_.

DeMoine folded his hands and leaned his elbows on the table, still holding his pen. "Let's start with the woman calling herself Illyria."

Thus they started... and showed little sign of stopping, or even changing topics to demons in general or Wolfram and Hart in passing. The questions came unhurriedly, the agent taking care to get as many details as possible... he was very good at his job. And as time went on, Landon became convinced that she was the real subject of the meeting.

_How strong would you say she is? Did she show any indications of the wounds she suffered during the Or'saa incident? Are you sure she would have killed the squatter? Has she shown any signs of gathering more than the demon and two young men to her cause?_ With each pointed question, his heart sank a bit. For the first time, he realized he was just a piece of a larger game, being played by far more powerful people, with their own agendas.

He'd known he'd been sent out on a fishing expedition. What he hadn't realized was that he wasn't the fisherman... he was the bait.


End file.
